


The Nephlim Trilogy

by MiniDemons



Category: Original Work
Genre: Civil War, Death, Gen, Godlings, Magic, Mercenaries, Multi, Rebellions, Serial Killers, magic is a disease that kills people, morally gray everywhere, multiple POVs, multiple characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24623839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniDemons/pseuds/MiniDemons
Summary: Felix stares at the boy curled in a ball in a broken alleyway. "I have an offer."The boy looks up, amber eyes watching as he prepares himself to bolt from the supposed threat. Felix can't help the smile that crawls across his face as he entreats,"It's nothing bad. Promise. It's just, I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of watching people die over stupid things. I'm tired of being afraid. Surely you understand?""I'm not-"Felix shushes the cowering child, "You don't need to be a nephlim to want to make the world better for them. That's the bright side of being human, you can be selfless if you want to be. You can make life better for others and not worry about not being included. Do you want to?"The boy furrows his brows as he asks, "Want to what?""Change the world."This is a story about how it can take the smallest things to start an avalanche. This is how a world made of glass shatters and everyone finds themselves freefalling into the abyss.This is how everything begins and how everything ends.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This is a story I've been working on for an incredibly long time. 10 years for plotting, and I started writing this version of the draft in Novemeber of last year.
> 
> Now don't get me wrong, I still count this as my first draft because this is the only version where I have gotten further than the second chapter. Bravo for me I guess. And as it is my first draft, I will be rewriting it in the future. Right now I just want to get feelers out and figure out what works and what does not. Any suggestions for improvement and what not.
> 
> Short version, any and all feedback is welcomed and encouraged. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy my story :)

He’s an ugly mess. Burns and blood mixing together with mud and smoke. Nasty really, if it was a year ago she’d have avoided him. She’d have avoided him and told her da’ that _there was a dirty street urchin in the sewers_.

She wasn’t the nicest when she was little. Given, she’s not sure she could call herself _little_ when that was less than a year ago.

It’s sad to think, that in one year so much would change. Bloody Nicholas and his war, dragging her da’ in it when he had no business to be in it to begin with.

Back then, fear is what pushed them. Fear and anger. The disease was new, riling people up with all sorts of thoughts and misgivings. Nicholas had a solution that her da’ just _leapt_ at.

It’s over now. The entire war. Everything.

It is all over.

So she wanders around, not sticking anywhere because her appearance was _striking_. Her magic more so. The disease is still a nasty little thing after all, godling forbid if a nephlim is in the area. They all might catch it.

That’s how she finds the kid. There is smoke, a fire in one of the neighborhoods and there’s yelling. Who knows who is yelling, but she can guess. There’s this new law after all, made just for Nicholas and his kin. The little monsters that have too much power and-

The boy keeps shifting, his eyes flashing between the red of a demon and the green of an emerald.

“Hey now, what are you doin’?” She reaches out and the boy just stares with wide eyes. He doesn’t even flinch, just watches. There’s blood all over him, a dark murky swamp that drowns his small frame. The disease wafts off him, an uncontrollable surge and she knows exactly how to control it. She’s seen her da’ do it. She’s seen Nicholas do it.

“Who are you?” The question is asked in this high pitched voice, forced. The boy even tilts his chin up higher, as if saying he’s bigger. It’s cute, really. The kid trying to be something he isn’t.

She touches his skin and she can _feel_ it. The disease swimming in his blood stream. Over flowing.

“I’m Ivory, who are you?” If she can find one of the cuts, she could take the disease. Take it and make it hers. Make his _magic_ hers. It’s tempting, in a way nothing else has been since her da’ died.

Her da’ always said power made people hungry. She never understood, not back then.

She understands now. After months of nothing, of everything falling apart beneath her feet and being unable to do anything-

She understands.

Power makes people hungry and the kid has so much power.

“Riozar. Are you- are you with _them_?” The boy pulls his arm out from under her hand, tugging it close to his body as he stares. Another flicker of color passes his eyes, a strand of hair grows long and dark for a split second.

“No, I can’t say I am. Do you know who they are?” She smiles at him, soft and understanding and resolutely does not reach out again. Patience is a virtue, her da’ always said.

He’s said a lot of things, really. She used to think he hung the moon.

The boy’s eyes well up, tears going unshed as he warbles out, “No, they said- they said- I want sissy.”

“I don’t think you’re going to get your _sissy_.” The words escape without her consent and she’s tempted to apologize for a second. The boy just stares at her, his lip wobbling as if she just said the most dreadful news. He’s still covered in blood, and suddenly she’s not confident that it’s _his_.

“What happened?” It’s not an apology, but it gets the boy to press his lips together so they stop wobbling.

“I didn’t do it! Daddy said to go away and I did, I _did_.” The boy leans forward, voice this desperate little shrill and it’s really all she needs to guess. “He said sissy would _follow_ ”

Hybrid magic, that’s what the boy was. Probably his sister too. She glances over to where the smoke fills the sky. She glances back at the kid, reaching out, “Come on, we should probably go somewhere else.”

The kid shrinks back, eyes wide as he babbles, “No, _I can’t_. Sissy might come or- Daddy will come. And mommy! And-“ He glances up towards the street, as if suddenly his family is going to appear.

She falters, watching and wonders how long the kid has been sitting in the dirty sewers waiting for his family. It couldn’t have been long, but when you’re by yourself the minutes drag into hours. Waiting is an excruciating pain she’d never wish upon anyone.

The proper procedure for this would be for her to report him, especially if they already know there’s two kids. If they recorded one kid dealt with and the other missing, it’d be a witch hunt. It’s better to deal with the hybrids before they become dangerous, volatile.

She’s read the newspapers, she knows the laws. Her presence was tolerated, the hybrids were extinguished. For good reason, she remembers Nicholas. Someone who had too much power and he had let it get out of hand.

That’s why Nicholas is dead and her da’ is dead and-

_Everyone is_ _dead_.

But her. She’s not dead. Instead she’s crouching in front of the entrance of a dirty sewer staring at a mere child whose crying. She offers her hand, smiles and says, “How about we go look for your family then?”

Proper procedure says she should put the kid in front of the firing squad and let it be done.

She should, she knows how they get. Firsthand experience. She’s seen how it ends for other people. Really, she could blame Nicholas for her da’.

The kid watches her, entire face falling apart. Tears and snot stream out as the kid loses the battle with himself. There’s a moment of hesitation and-

She’d never understand what could bring a kid to grab a stranger’s hand and hold it like a lifeline.

Fear, she supposes. The same fear her da’ felt way back when.

She tugs and the kid falls out of the sewer and continues to slide straight into her life.

His magic buzzes under his skin and-

Proper procedure says she should sacrifice the little boy.

Proper procedure could go fuck itself because proper procedure also says the she needs to have a medical license to take someone’s disease. It’s why she’s been falling apart, unable to even stand on her own.

Her grip tightens on the boy because, suddenly she doesn’t need to worry.

She’s got all the magic she could ever desire, in the form of a sniveling boy who most likely just lost everything he ever had.

The world is a cruel, cruel place. And just think, a year ago she was in his place. Except there was no hand reaching out to grab hers when the massacre ended.


	2. Living Nightmares

“Dad! Dad, quick.” Tyria yells, a strand of panic in her voice that Zamron isn’t used to hearing. Usually, Tyria is the quiet kind, soft voice but loud smile.

She’s not like that now; she turns into his bedroom with her blue eyes wide and brown hair a mess around her face. “There was an accident, we need a healer.”

Zamron stands up, creaking bones complaining with each movement he forces upon his body. His daughter doesn’t even wait for him, she darts out of the room as soon as she sees him stand up from his bed. He follows, scooping up a jacket on the way out.

It’s dark and cold outside the house. The wind a soft buzz that ruffles mussed up hair. Tyria waits for him out on the porch, but as soon as he closes the door, she storms away with quick feet. Part of him wonders if she missed the old days; back when their house homed the casualties of war and she was the child that played nurse.

He grabs the lantern hanging out on the porch, the small flame burning away at the darkness that surrounds him. Tyria is off in the dark, young eyes spotting the objects that are in the way that threaten to trip her. He’s not so lucky, his feet shuffle about in dead grass as he eyes anything that even looks suspicious in the poor lighting.

It’s a bit down the road, not too far but not that close. Not close enough if Zamron is expected to carry someone. He’s been living a soft life for far too long for his body to be able to do any type of heavy lifting. Tyria would be able to help, but not for long. She’s never been a strong one.

The accident Tyria brought him to is...

Gruesome.

Maybe if the earth was softer, or if they hit the ground in a better way, it wouldn’t have ended the way it had, but life wasn’t like that. There’s a girl, stumbling in the dark and talking to Tyria when Zamron finally catches up. The burning light of the lantern bathes the scene in a dying red.

The other one, the girl that wasn’t so lucky, was crushed. There was bone sticking out of her shin, and her arm was twisted at an unnatural angle. Her head a bloody mess, hair taking this dark crimson color that was closer to black than anything else. The horse, or whatever else it was, was gone.

Possibly spooked, bolting the second it got on its feet after the initial fall.

“What happened?” Tyria whispers, head bowed close to uninjured girl. Zamron doesn’t get a good look at her, the hood of her jacket blocks her face from his view as he crouches down next to the other one. He sets the lantern to the side, its small flame trying its hardest to bathe the darkness with light.

“There was,” It’s a broken voice that responds, shaking as she continues, “There was thunder and the horse spooked and…” She trails off; in the corner of Zamron’s eye, he can see her fiddle with her hands. Tyria steps closer as she says,

“How long ago was that?”

Zamron reaches down, pressing two fingers to the broken girl’s throat to feel for a pulse. There’s a flutter, thank the Godlings the girl’s heart was still beating.

Warm breath fans across Zamron’s chilled forearm.

“I-“There’s movement in the corner of his eye as the other girl rubs her elbow. “It was dark. Not as dark, so maybe an hour? Or two? We don’t- I don’t have a watch. Ann always said we didn’t need to know the time so…”

“Is that your friend’s name? Ann?” Tyria’s voice is gentle and calm. Something soothing for the other girl to focus on. She always was good at talking to people, making them calm down. Be it when she was little telling a dying soldier that he’d be okay because she’s got _the best dad_ and _that he can heal **everything**. _People didn’t believe her, but there’s something about a child holding your hand and being optimistic without even thinking of the negative.

“Ye- Yeah. It’s short for Anastasia. It’s… a silly name, right? She’s…” The other girl stutters before going, “She’s going to be okay right? She…”

“Yes, she’ll be fine. My dad’s the best healer and if- if she’s not a nephlim there’s a leech in town so everything will be fine. What’s your name?”

The girl, Ann, probably wouldn’t be _fine_. Zamron was inspecting her shin first. His hands carefully ghosting over the side to make sure there was only the one injury. The bone was jagged but smooth. Not a swirling break, but more like something stepped on it and forced it to bend where it was not supposed to.

It had been so long since Zamron even tried to use magic. Something he had started and stopped during the war. It wasn’t natural, the human body wasn’t meant to heal so quickly in such a short time frame. It had been so long, but he could still manipulate his magic for healing.

The world goes black as he imagines the bone sinking back into her skin. The bone would slide right back into its proper placement, the jagged cuts would just click in place like puzzle pieces. The mending of the bone started, just enough for it to _stick and_ -

There’s blood. He can feel it. The bone’s movement opens the wound, no longer blocking the blood flow, and it burns to the touch.

“My- My name is Pete. Are you-“

Zamron swears under his breath, a silly mistake to make but-

“So, where were you guys going? Are you two from around here, Pete?”

As much as he disliked magic at times, it really did come in hand. Just thinking of the blood clotting, skin stretching over and forcibly mending it together like a nasty scab has the wound closing. Nothing pretty he’s sure, but enough to where hot blood stops touching the chilly air.

“Ah, no. Ann- Ann has something here. A… job opportunity.” Pete still sounds awful, her voice breaking at odd words.

It’s a quick and dirty fix, nothing he would have done typically in the past. They were limited, though, and Zamron doubted the capabilities of Tyria and Pete in carrying the girl without jostling her. Too much of a risk for things to get worse if he left the open fracture alone.

“What kind of job opportunity?”

Ann’s arm wasn’t as bad as he first thought. Twisted at an unnatural angle, but at a closer look, it didn’t seem broken. It was more out of socket and twisted. Something nasty and painful but more comfortable to fix and-

“She was trying to get a job for uh…” Pete slides the hood off her head when Zamron looks up from the not so broken girl at his feet. Pete has a curled up bush atop her head but, Zamron squints, she also had a pair of ears twitching on top of the wavy mess. “Nephlim… Research.”

“Ah- oh! Are you? Shapeshifter?” Tyria’s got this excited pitch to her voice, completely disregarding everything else, and Zamron can see her abort a motion to reach up to touch Pete’s ears. The girl had always been too curious for her own good.

“Not a very good one…” The words are a mumble, ears flattening against Pete’s head.

“Hey! We need to move her. I’ve done all I can here, and she’s stable enough to be moved now.” Zamron’s shout has Tyria jumping, her head swiveling around to stare at him.

“Yes! Uh, of course.” Tyria stumbles over her words, body jerking a step back before she darts to Zamron’s side to offer help. “What do you want me to do?”

Pete wavers where she stands, a stuttering step before she stops. Zamron gives her a brief glance before his attention goes back to his daughter. “Do you think you can carry her?”

Tyria chews on her cheek, “It depends on how heavy she is- I could probably do it-“

“I can do it.” It’s the other girl’s voice; when Zamron looks up, there are glowing yellow eyes peeking down at them. The pupils are large slits, and her gaze unfocused. With the light of the lantern, Zamron can see a small trail of blood trickling down her forehead.

“I don’t think you should be-“Zamron is cut off by desperate eyes; the girl takes a step closer as she repeats,

“I can do it.”

“Maybe,” Tyria crouches between the two, eyes flickering back and forth as she offers, “we can both carry her? I don’t think you are in any shape to actually carry someone on your own, Pete. You’re still in shock.”

Pete gives a pause, the dark shadow of one of her ears twitching before, “I- yeah. That- That sounds…” She motions towards Ann as she continues, “I can take the left side?”

Tyria gives the brightest smile, “Sounds like a plan.”

As the two girls maneuver around Ann’s unconscious body, Zamron scoops the lantern back up. Pete stumbles a little as she crouches down to grab at the uninjured side of Ann as Tyria carefully picks up the dislocated arm and wraps one of her arms around Ann’s torso. He waits, with the lantern raised high to give them light as the two girls juggle the dead weight around.

There’s a bag, right on the edge of the dim light. It’s this small thing, easily forgotten about and ignored. Zamron looks back at the girls, at Pete wavering under her friend’s weight but stubborn in staying to help. He quickly scoops up the bag and has it hanging off his arm.

The girls’ strides are stilted, Pete lagging on individual steps and Tyria overcompensating when she shouldn’t be. It’s a slow crawl on the way back, Ann’s feet dragging on the ground. The two girls softly chat during the walk; Zamron catches little bits and pieces like, _are you sure she’ll be okay?_ And _there’s nothing my dad can’t heal. Your friend will be good as new before you know it._

Zamron enters the house first, dropping the bag by the foot next to all of the shoes before holding the door wide open for the girls and ordering, “Put her on the couch, I can work from there.” He reaches for the lights before Ann is even dropped onto the couch. With a click, light floods the room.

Everything looks better in the light. The dark shadows that hid the wounds and let imagination run wild hide back where they belong. Ann is still the broken girl, but it’s not so gruesome. She’s got a healthy pink to her skin, the wound on her shin still this gnarled mess, but nothing _horrifying_.

Tyria flutters about, trying to gently nudge Ann into a more comfortable position as Pete hovers overhead. Pete’s obviously on her last legs, body swaying as if on a ship, and her eyes keep sliding shut.

“Tyria.” Zamron barks and Tyria snaps to attention. “Go take… Pete and see to her injuries.”

“Wha-“Pete jerks into a standing position, eyes wide as she stutters out, “No- I- I’m fine.” She swings her hand in the air as if cutting off any attention. Tyria softens up, a gentle smile on her face as she reaches out to nudge at Pete.

“You might be fine, but that’s a nasty cut on your forehead that’s going to hurt later if we don’t clean it up.” Zamron watches as Pete fights accepting the offer of help, her eyes flickering between Ann and Tyria.

“I can take care of your friend from here. Go with Tyria.” The words are enough for Pete to take a step back and follow Tyria’s gentle nudging. As soon as Pete is out of sight, Zamron brings his attention to Ann. Tyria was able to get her in a partial sitting position, probably to make it easier when Zamron fixed her shoulder.

He sits on the coffee table in front of the girl, leaning forward to grab her delicate face. Her eyes are barely open, and when he tries to pull the eyelids open, he can see dark blue irises rolling around. He thinks they stick to him for a second as if she’s waking up and can _see him_ before her eyes drift away. She doesn’t seem to have a concussion going by what he can see of her pupils.

He does find a head wound, a flap of flesh hanging amongst her ginger hair. It doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, so he decides to deal with it later after finding any other injuries the young girl had and fixing her arm. The only things he sees are little scrapes and bruises, the swollen flesh on her shin, and the dislocated shoulder.

It’s when he’s setting her shoulder that she wakes up. There’s a choked scream, dark eyes shooting open as her entire body jolts forward. Zamron leans back, giving her a second to think as her eyes swing wildly around the room. “Hey, hey. Calm down, you’re okay. You were in an accident a few hours ago, and my daughter found you.”

She blinks at him, mouth opening and closing as if trying to find words.

“I’m Dr. Ionar, and you are currently in my home in Faliem. Your friend is currently being treated in the next room over by my daughter. You had a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, and a head injury. How are you feeling?”

“I’m- everything hurts.” She manages to croak out, shifting slightly. She keeps her dark eyes pinned onto Zamron as she fidgets. “Where… where are my things?”

“I only saw a bag; we can go back in the morning to see if we missed anything if you’d like?” The girl blinks at him before looking at the door he was gesturing towards.

“We… only brought the one bag. It was supposed to be a short thing.” She says, a frown on her lips. Zamron makes a humming noise before he lifts one finger in front of Ann’s face.

“Follow my finger.” He starts slowly moving said digit in the air, watching as Ann freezes for a second before her eyes begin to track his index finger. Zamron first swings it to the left, then to center and back to the right. Outside of the initial hiccup, she follows it.

“Pete said, you guys were here for a job?” The question slips out before Zamron can stop it. Ann abandons the finger Zamron still had raised up to watch him. She’s frowning at him, twitching as she straightens out her posture and puffs up her chest as if to make herself a more significant threat than she was.

“For nephlims.” Her response is short and sharp. As if expecting ridicule and Zamron can’t help but crack a smile.

“I think whatever it is your doing, it’s great. I myself am a nephlim, and I know we could use all of the help we can get.” She doesn’t deflate like he was expecting; instead, her posture stays stiff as if ready to hop on the defensive at a moment’s notice. “Research, right? I’m assuming you guys are heading towards Mavinsport?”

“Something like that.” Ann looks away, her stilted answer hanging in the air.

“Right…” Zamron hums before tapping the girl’s knee. “Could you raise your leg for me, please? I need to do a quick check on the healing I did earlier.”

Ann lifts her leg without comment, biting the inside of her lip when her shin touched the bottom of the coffee table. “Careful, careful.” He chides, softly touching around the wound. It’s swollen, and no doubt hurts going by how Ann cringes at every gentle touch. The scab where the break looks nasty, a black and red mess with inflamed skin and bruises scattering around it.

“My daughter works in Mavinsport. Not so much with research but she works with a charity group for nephlims. If you are working there you’ll probably see her quite frequently. She’s always stopping by the research facility.” Zamron hovers his hand over the scab, debating on mending the muscles together some more.

“Maybe.” Is all Ann offers.

“Your leg is going to be fine, you’ll be limping for a few weeks, but it’s nothing that will last. You will, unfortunately, have a scar. Magic is good at fixing things, but it never does it elegantly. If you were a patient that was brought in, I would have put stitches in instead.” Zamron nudges Ann’s leg to get her to bring it back down to the floor.

“That’s… fine. You said I had a dislocated shoulder?” Ann rubs at her shoulder, head cocked to the side.

“Nothing a night’s rest won’t fix. You and your friend can sleep in the guest house for the night. It’s a bit too late for you two to go out again. In the morning we can try to see if we can find your horse?” Zamron offers and watches as Ann looks up before _finally_ sinking into the couch. Stiff posture slowly melting away as she continues to rub at her shoulder and then,

“Yeah, that sounds… wonderful.” Dark eyes look down to the floor before Ann raises her head to stare directly at Zamron as she says, “Thank you.” She still doesn’t smile, a frown claiming her mouth; the words have a cumbersome ring to them as she shoves them out into the air.

“It’s fine. Let me go get your friend so that we can show you your room, okay?” Zamron flashes a smile, patting the couch before getting up. Ann just watches him without saying a word.

Tyria and Pete are over in another room. Tyria’s room actually going by the soft talking he can hear. Pete sounds happier, her voice shaking less, and she has more confidence in her words. He’s reasonably sure it was Pete anyways since it definitely was not Tyria’s voice going, “-really have a job. More of a… wherever the wind takes me? I was in the military right after the war with that big draft going on, so I’ve done enough work to last a lifetime.”

“Oh, with the CME?” That was Tyria’s voice, he was confident of that. He hesitates outside the door with his knuckles raised. Tyria always had a fascination with the CME, even if she could never bring herself to join the ragtag military group. She always worried about how they went about things and didn’t agree with several of the laws they passed.

“No, it was an experimental group back before the CME was fully formed. It ended up being a wash, though. Too many humans got sick because of it.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of that before? Surely it would have been big news. Nephlims and humans working together.”

“Nah, we would have had so much bad rep. It was actually how I met Ann, you know? Me and her and a few others against the world. Got my contract cut short when it got disbanded.” Pete sounds proud as she explains. Nothing like earlier and Zamron is tempted to just leave them be and show Ann to the guest house. Tyria didn’t get to talk to as many people as she should since she’s always been staying home to take care of her old, senile father.

“That’s pretty awesome. Is Ann a nephlim too?” Tyria sounds ecstatic, probably bouncing on her toes.

“She’s…” Pete’s voice drifts off before she awkwardly tacks on, “something.”

“Was she the only human with the group? Or how many were there? She has to be a pretty good friend to still travel with you if she got sick before.” Tyria sounds awed, altogether skipping over the strained answer Pete had given her.

Pete’s giving a choked “Er-“when Zamron raps his knuckles against the door and slowly slides it open.

“Hey girls, hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Tyria has Pete sitting on her bed as she sits on one of her stools. There’s a bloodied rag over by the lamp, but it the two seemed to have passed most of their time chatting. Pete had removed her jacket, a dog tail resting next to her. _Werewolf_ is the first thought that crosses Zamron’s mind as he sees it. Then he looks back up at the ears attached to an entirely human face.

All Pete was, was a nephlim that didn’t have control of her magic. It’s rare for a nephlim whose magic takes a physical form to not have absolute authority over the disease. Usually, the black magic shapeshifters take to their magic like ducks to water. Zamron’s magic wasn’t so lucky, he had to study and learn and imagine to use correctly, but it was something that could be easily hidden away if he couldn’t control it.

Tyria offers a bright smile, “Nothing to interrupt, dad. Everything’s fine. How’s Ann?” Pete actually perks up when she hears her friend’s name.

“Ann is fine. Actually, she woke up not that long ago. I thought you two might want to get settled in?” He leaves the question open for Pete, who gives a timid smile.

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother-“

“Nonsense! You guys don’t even have a horse anymore and whilst my dad _is_ the best he can’t perform miracles. Both you and Ann need some rest before you try to continue on your way to Laqrea.” Tyria interrupts before Pete could finish her refute. She’s got this demanding tone in her voice as if daring Pete to argue.

“If you insist…” Pete’s back to being quiet, yellow eyes flickering between Zamron and his daughter.

“We do. It’s fine, we have the space.”

Pete gives a nod as she pushes herself up on her feet. Tyria calls out, “Let me know if you need any help. I’m going to clean up!” Zamron waves her off with a laugh.

“I didn’t think you could clean up.” Tyria’s face contorts and she opens her mouth to retort, but Zamron is quick to add on, “So, you ready to go, Pete?”

Pete gives a nod and follows Zamron out of the room. The second they leave the hallway and Pete can see into the living room, the girl is gone. She darts past Zamron to Ann and flutters about chirping out a, “Ann! How are you? Are you okay? In any pain? Are you-“

“I’m fine.” It sounds like she’s snapping, but Zamron can see a faint smile on her lips. Just the smallest upwards quirk in the lips that makes the harsh tone so much softer. Pete still hovers, but she’s smiling too now. Ann looks over at Zamron, her frown returning the second she stopped watching the fretting Pete, and she adds, “We’re staying in a guest house?”

“Yeah, it’s right across the street, so it’ll be a bit of a walk, but you two would have the place to yourselves.” Zamron heads straight for the door, stopping to watch the two girls. Pete’s helping Ann off the couch while Ann gives quiet complaints that Zamron couldn’t hear. Pete’s got the gentlest smile as she tugs Ann up, and Ann follows her with a slight trip.

“Why do you have a guest house, if you don’t mind me asking?” Pete asks after she herded Ann towards the door.

“It was my wife’s. We had a bed and breakfast thing going in the early years.” Zamron picks up the bag by the entrance, handing it over to Pete before he opens the door for them.

“Where’s your wife?” It’s an innocent enough question. A bit on the nosey side, but Zamron can’t really blame them. He’s shutting the door and grabbing the lantern as he says,

“She wasn’t a nephlim. I apologize that the walk is a bit of a distance, but if you follow me, we will be there in a few minutes.” He holds the lantern high, letting the orange light bathe their surroundings as he makes his way out into the dirt road.

“What- oh. Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.” Pete scrambles behind him as Ann limps after her.

“It’s life, unfortunately.” The trek is a slow one, done in a frozen silence that shatters once the house is in view. It’s a second story house, grey in the blackness of night with windows scattered about the walls. The gravel under their feet crunch as they walk, stones skittering about with each step.

“It looks nicer than your house.” Pete notes, head whipping around to stare up at the house. “Why don’t you two live here?”

“The house is too big for two people, and usually it is just me anyways. A big house is lonelier than a small house. More things to miss.” He unlocks the front door, letting it swing open to the empty expanse of the living room. The entire place is dusty and untouched, he doesn’t even remember the last time someone was in the house.

As soon as his wife died, he had locked up the place and done away with the bed and breakfast. After the war ended, he retired and holed himself up in the tiny house across the street. It was a rare day when he left, even more extraordinary when he was around someone other than his daughter.

“The bedrooms are upstairs, you two will have your choice of whichever ones you want.” Zamron motions to the stairs and then tacks on, “In the morning you two can join us for breakfast. There’s not any food in this house, but every morning I usually start cooking around…. Eight-ish?”

“That sounds wonderful, we’ll be sure to join.” Pete is smiling again as she reaches out a hand. Zamron accepts the proffered hand, and Pete says, “Thank you so much for everything you are doing for us. I…” Her voice drifts up, smile dimming a little before she finishes, “I have no idea how we will ever repay you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I could never just abandon someone who needs help. What kind of doctor would I be if I _didn’t_ help someone injured?” Zamron waves her off, giving a quick grin. “I hope you two have a good night and I will see you in the morning.”

“Again, thank you.” Pete goes and tugs Ann forward, adding, “ _Both_ of us really appreciate this.” Ann just watches with that frown on her lips, eyes hazy and unfocused.

Zamron nods at the girl, “Make sure she gets some sleep. It’s been a rough day for both of you, and magic takes a lot out of people. Tomorrow I’ll give you the address to the leech in town so that Ann doesn’t have to worry about side effects.” He gave a slight wave before taking his leave and returning back to the house. Leaving the two girls to explore the old house on their own.

Tyria is sitting on the couch as he enters the house. She’s got this expectant look on her face, and her posture as straight as a metal rod, “Everything go well?”

“Everything is fine, opening that house isn’t going to break me.” Zamron scoffs, blowing out a breath to kill the flame in the lantern before he collapses on the couch next to his daughter.

“I know- I just worry. It’s been so long… “Zamron wraps an arm around Tyria’s shoulders as he drags her close to him.

“Hush, you aren’t the one supposed to be worrying about anything. That’s my job.” He chides, leaning his cheek on his daughter’s frizzy hair.

“Yeah, but I’m allowed to worry too now. You told me that.” Is Tyria’s weak defense. Just a token protest in all honesty, and Zamron lets a chuckle escape him.

“Yeah, yeah. I did. But you don’t need to. There are other things to think about, like tomorrow. Big day right?” He feels Tyria’s nod. “You should probably get some sleep, don’t you think?”

“Ah, I see what this is, you’re just trying to get rid of me, aren’t you?” Tyria digs a boney finger into Zamron’s side at the complaint, and he can’t help the gust of air that escapes him at the prod.

“I would never.” He laughs, squashing his daughter closer to his side and giving her a jab back.

“You’re squishing me! Dad! Dad stop it!” The shouts are interrupted with bouts of giggles as Tyria squirms away, shoving an elbow between them and trying to pry herself away. Zamron stays stubborn in keeping her in his clutches until, “Fine, fine. I give I give!”

“Mhmm, c’mon squirt. To bed with you.” Zamron nudges Tyria away. The girl leans forward, unlatching Zamron’s chin from her head as she turns to the side to stare at him.

“You need to go to bed too.”

“I was sleeping, then a certain somebody who I shall not name woke me up.” Zamron can’t help his fond grin as Tyria puffs up in indignation.

“Someone was injured, and you told me-“

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Go on, shoo.” He waves his hand in the air as if to hurry her along. Tyria simply shakes her head and jumps off the couch. As she heads to her room she gives a laugh and says,

“Good night, dad. See you in the morning.”

“Bed!” Zamron orders, and Tyria obeys with chuckles following her wake.

He’s left sitting in the living room by himself. The silence drapes around his shoulders like an old friend and as he slips his eyes closed everything seems… normal. Peaceful. It’s been a while since he’s opened the guest house up; it’s been longer since someone has been invited to breakfast.

With a sigh, he lifts himself up on old tired feet and head to his room where he falls onto the bed.

Falls into sleep and….

Eventually, he falls into his dreams.

It’s a simple thing, breakfast with the three of them and laughter echoing in the cozy little house. The sun rises in the window, and the smell of eggs and pancakes drowns out everything else. Tyria is little then, still going to school. Magic isn’t a thing, which was evident the second he saw his wife’s smiling face.

Tyria is sent off to school with cheek kisses and wishes of luck, all of which she consumes with the biggest grin a kid could have. Then it’s his turn, and he just stands there and stares. He stares and drinks in the sight he never sees when he’s awake.

Zamron reaches out, and the second his wife walks into his embrace, everything falls apart.

There’s air in his lungs, filling them until they burst, and there’s a ringing in his ears.

A feeling, this tickling notion sets into his mind. There was a noise, he heard this sharp, horrible noise just as his wife stepped into his arms. Something he’s never heard before, something he’d never _dream_.

He’s bumbling out of his bed, out of his room, out of his _house_ when he sees it.

Tyria sits there, leaning against the wall of the house, and her head tilted up. Her eyes barely flicker over to Zamron, but they don’t need to. Zamron is darting to her side, hands reaching and reaching.

Tyria opens her mouth, not a word escapes just this small hiccup of breath.

“What-“He doesn’t even finish the words. Instead, he lifts up the hand Tyria has cradled to her stomach.

Her stomach was blooming _red._

It wasn’t supposed to do that. He presses his hand to her side, and everything just _burns._ Pulling up her shirt he can see it. It’s awful.

Horrible.

The worst thing.

He’d rather sit by his wife’s bedside and hold her cold, cold hand than sit here staring at the small wound that lazily spat out blood in big, heaving waves.

Magic can only do so much after all.

It does things a messy way, imperfect and unnatural. But it only does what he can think of, what he _knows of_.

He was a doctor, an old senile doctor that dealt more with broken bones and broken skin.

He wasn’t one to deal with bullet wounds and Tyria…

Tyria had a bullet wound.

“It’s okay dad, you can heal anything, right?” Tyria whispers in this broken voice, a hand reaching to touch Zamron’s hand as he stares and stares and stares and _stares_.

He tries to think of the wound healing; of skin mending, but all he can see is a grave with flowers on top of it.

He’s back at the hospital just as his wife takes her last breathe. Little Tyria clinging to him as she cries her heart out, blaming herself for unfortunate circumstances.

“You’re the best, after all.”

He’s just frozen, one hand touching the bleeding wound and….

His magic does nothing.

“So don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”


	3. Hopeless Cause

Mavinsport is a small town. Not where Felix usually goes to, he prefers the cities. He’s become fond of electricity the past few years and going back to towns where electricity is scarce is awful. Or vehicles, he’d prefer a car any day over a horse. But then again, he just never got a hang of the whole horseback thing.

Rizeal laughs at him for it all the time. Maybe not physically, but he can hear it ringing in his mind.

“Why are we here again?” Felix complains, slouching as he nudges his horse to go the slightest bit faster. Not too fast though, he hated the rocking of the horse at speeds faster than a slow trot. The sun beats down on his back, burning into his delicate pale flesh.

Rizeal is irritated, even if she doesn’t say anything he can feel the anger radiating off of her. Felix is certain she’s got the stiffest frown on her lips and that she’s holding back a snapped _I’ve told you that a million fucking times_. Felix can’t help it, Rizeal was always fun to poke at.

It’s Aizel that replies though, chirping out, “It’s for one of Rizeal’s acquaintances. Trying to get more blood in the group.” Aizel is the only one that hates horseback more than Felix. Felix at least had some years out in the countryside whilst Aizel was raised in the city his entire life.

Felix would call the kid spoilt but…. Felix certainly didn’t envy Aizel for his life.

Rizeal seems to view Aizel as an ally, slowing down her horse to glare at Felix with sky blue eyes. “I have a friend here. Old friend. She’s doing this... protest in the town. Right around the research facility. She’d probably want to join our little rag tag team.”

“And why just us three? Or why not just you?” Felix asked, leaning forward so he can try to peek at Rizeal’s face. She’s definitely frowning but she can’t seem to help rolling her eyes at his antics.

“Because she might not agree with everything we propose and you’re a better talker than I am.” She lets the words out as if her teeth were being pulled.

“Ah.” Felix leans back in the saddle, straightening up in his posture. “She might not agree about the hybrids.” It makes sense after all, that’s what most everyone was skittish about. Majority that joined their cause either had hybrid magic or knew someone that did. It’s harder to coax those that only had the media to reference off of.

The media was never nice, especially with nephlims like the serial killer Ghost running about. They made sure to promote all the negative cases, like _oh this one was a hybrid and they burned down their school._ Never anything bright, even for the black or white magic nephlims.

“It’s…” Rizeal can’t even find a defense to the words. She doesn’t have to, Felix knows. It would be hard _not_ to know. Those with hybrid magic are the monsters under the bed. They were blamed for the nephlim hatred and the war. Maybe fairly blamed in regards to the war, but Felix could never understand it.

“Are we going to be flat out telling her things? Because that would be stupid and asking for trouble. She could get more leeway with everyone by turning us in.” Aizel is a worrywart. Nipping at the biggest issue with approaching people about their plans. Their ideas. It’s all controversial enough to get the CME in a fizzy, let alone the fact that several of their members were _hiding_ from the CME.

That was the issue with having hybrid nephlims helping out. The second they get discovered the entire group would be going up in flames. It’d be brutal and bloody. That’s what Aizel was there for, to make the plans for when things go south. He thought like the CME thought, could predict things and movements relatively accurately. The positive side of being a turn tail.

“No.” Rizeal sends a dark look over to Aizel before she looks forward again, “I was planning on asking her for a joint protest up in Laqrea. Maybe finding a way to figure out her thoughts on hybrids along the way?” She shoots a questioning glance over at Felix who offers a shrug.

“We can just mention a few things and figure out her feelings from there. Worst case scenario we team up with her for a few things and recruit people from those protests.” There wasn’t much else they could do. Everything was still in the sketching phase of planning. Just a general idea on what they wanted and how to go about. So many mysterious question marks still to fill in.

Rizeal gives a noncommittal hum before, “We’ll be there shortly. The protest won’t start for another hour or so but we should be able to find her somewhere around.”

“Who are we looking for again?” Felix asked, looking up into the sky at the sun. He isn’t looking forward to tracking someone down under its glare and the sun was only just now reaching its peak. It didn’t seem like a promising afternoon.

“Her name was Ionar or something like that. It’s been a while.” Rizeal doesn’t even pause to think. She’s probably been dreading this since the beginning because immediately Felix is snapping out,

“What do you mean _or something_? You don’t even know her name? Please, oh please tell me you at least know what she looks like.” Felix would have forced the horse to a halt if he thought it would help with anything. He knows Rizeal though, she’d have just left without him.

Not forever, of course, no Rizeal would never downright _abandon_ him. She’d leave him to sulk by himself though. Maybe for several days depending on her mood. She always had the uncanny ability to find Felix though. Something he’d be forever grateful for; he doesn’t know what he’d be doing if Rizeal hadn’t found him the first time.

“Or did you have an idea on how to find her?” Aizel adds, sticking close to Felix like the good little soldier boy he is. Sometimes Felix worries that the boy wouldn’t think for himself if he needed to and would just agree with whatever Felix decided on. As much as Felix appreciated the sentiment he knew he made stupid moves sometimes and would prefer if someone smacked him and called him an idiot rather than agreeing blindly to his every suggestion.

“We could ask around for her. She’s the one leading this entire thing _and_ if I saw her I would remember her. She’s very striking.” Rizeal retorts, huffing angrily before she kicked her horse’s side to get the horse to bolt forward and leave Felix and Aizel in the dust.

Aizel looks over at Felix before eyeing the departing horse. “I’m not doing that.” He says it so defiantly with a stubborn turn of the lips. Felix can’t help but grin, brace for the worst, and challenge him,

“You sure?” Felix doesn’t even wait for Aizel to reply before he’s darting off after Rizeal. It takes a second of stillness before Felix can hear the pounding of hooves behind him as Aizel gives chase. Felix can’t help the laugh that bubbles up and out of his throat as he leans forward, edging his horse to go faster.

It’s a quick thing, they tear right through the town until Rizeal slows down to a proper trot. Felix stumbles a bit in the change of speed whilst Aizel soars past them, his horse tripping over the stop before turning to stare at them. Rizeal is rolling her eyes and Felix can’t wipe the grin off his face.

Aizel on the other hand looks like a disgruntled kitten, brown hair flying about and freckles standing out against his pale skin. “Why did you two feel the need for that anyways.” It’s not so much a question more of a snapped complaint that he then adds, “We would have made it in a timely manner either way.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Felix says as he nudges his horse to head towards Aizel. Rizeal simply shakes her head, dismounting in one smooth motion.

“Come on you two, there’s a stable close by where we can take the horses.” Felix looks away from Aizel to glance over at Rizeal. She’s not even bothering to look back and make sure they are following before she leaves them. She just expects them to follow, which they do.

Aizel dismounts in a rush, a foot getting caught in the saddle on the way down causing him to do a little skipping motion until it was set free. Felix just stayed perched atop the horse, watching as amusement curls up inside like a cat on a warm lap at the boy’s antics.

A slight tap and his horse takes on a slow trot, following after Rizeal’s blonde head and her speckled horse.

She wasn’t lying when she said there was a stable close by; actually if anything she was overestimating the distance. In reality the stables was one building down from where they stopped. A large brown barn with a tiny white shed attached to it. There’s a window on the tiny shed, half open with a flier attached to it.

Rizeal is the one who reaches it first, giving a small knock on the window after taking a second to read the flier. Felix squints his eyes at it, trying to distinguish the letters into words. A girl pops her head out, a murky redhead with glasses perched on her nose as she stares at them before,

“Three horses?”

“And some feed if possible, ma’am.” Rizeal is all professional, back straight and a hand on the coin purse at her hip. The girl in the window nods, vanishes for a second before reappearing and chirping out,

“That will be 270 per night, plus an extra 70 for the feed. How many nights were you planning on staying?” She’s got a notepad out, pen neatly writing down words and numbers before taking a pause to stare at Rizeal.

Rizeal looks back, eyebrows arched as if waiting for confirmation. Felix heaves out a sigh, slowly dismounting and whispering calming words to the horse whilst his knee clips the horse’s back. Solid ground feels nice on his feet when he lands. Something that doesn’t move or fidget or rock and instead is steady and solid.

It’s a quick walk over, he passes a glance on the flier again, reading _Freya’s Stables. Best place for a rest. We offer feed, heated blankets, treats, training, and more! Ask for more information_ before looking up at the girl. “It’ll only be for one night. We’re here for the…” A sheepish grin, “protest. Or the speaker? I’m honestly not sure what you would call it.”

The girl blinks at him, her mind moving sluggish before she gives a nod and says, “340 silvers please.” She doesn’t even pause on the thought of the protest, completely skipping past it to write down how much they owe. Rizeal is the one dropping the coins down on the window shelf.

Felix takes the paper, quickly scribbling down a signature before asking, “Do you know anything about that event?”

“Not exactly what I’m interested in. Give me a second so I can open the stables for you guys.” She holds up a finger before swiping everything on the desk and quickly filing the silver coins away. She’s gone as quickly, rushing out of sight the second the last coin touched the edge of whatever jar or container she used.

Felix sends a glance over in Rizeal’s direction, a cock of the head and she seems to understand in seconds. Nothing to be had here, a lost cause. She reaches over and grabs the reins of the other two horse saying, “I’ll take care of things here. How about you two look around the research facility? It’s where the event is supposed to be held. I’ll meet up after.”

Aizel hands over the reins to his horse without hesitation. “Yeah sure, who are we looking for again? Ionar? Do you know if she’s a nephlim at least?” The boy, man really because Felix knows he’s older than 16, sticks his hands in his pants pockets with a pout upon his lips. Like a child with their toy taken, given Felix doesn’t know what the toy would be in this instance. Maybe the toy was the city that Felix and Rizeal uprooted the boy from not too long ago.

“White magic, I don’t remember her type. But she’s got weak magic, mother wasn’t a nephlim.” Rizeal’s walking away already, three horses trailing behind her and crowding in around each other. Felix is quick to shout out,

“Thanks sweetie! You’re an angel, truly.” Aizel looks unimpressed, but Felix was never one to try to impress. If he wanted to impress someone he had other ways, easier ways than talking in a respectable manner to old friends. “Come on twerp, we got a mysterious woman to find and a protest to crash.” Felix gives Aizel’s shoulder a slap as he walks by.

“I’m not a-“ Aizel bites back the complaint, letting loose a heavy sigh before, “Whatever.” Aizel falls into step behind Felix with bitter complaints on the tip of his tongue.

“Yes, you are. You’re a spoiled little brat.” Felix laughs, looking back to watch as Aizel slouches even more than he was before. “We can get you some fags before we leave okay? I’m sure your addiction is acting up already.”

Aizel bounds forward a couple feet, irritated words being thrown into the air at the mere suggestion. “My so called _addiction_ is _not_ ,” He uses finger quotations as he finishes spitting out the words, “ _acting up_.” Felix cracks a grin in his direction, watching as the boy flusters before glaring at the ground.

“Uh huh. I’m sure it isn’t. You’re usually more lively than this though so ‘scuse me if I worry for your delicate little soul.” It’s a blatant tease and Aizel shoves Felix away the second the words are floating in the air. Felix can’t help the laughter as he returns the shove before saying, “ _Come on_ ; let’s go find our mystery lady.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing.” Aizel is sulking, he doesn’t even bother retaliating the shove and instead picks up the speed. As if he knew where they were heading, then again there’s only so many places a research facility could be. The large white building further down the road with the large sign _Mavinsport Research_ seemed like a pretty guilty candidate all things considered.

“You were whining is what you were doing.” Felix shouts at Aizel’s back. The boy turns around on his heel to shoot Felix the middle finger before continuing his solo storm towards the building. Felix gives him a few seconds to enjoy solitude before he darts after the boy.

“It doesn’t look like anything is going on though.” Is the quiet comment Aizel gives the second Felix catches up, amber eyes darting to the side to stare at Felix. He’s not sure this is the right place, having no faith built up in Rizeal yet. Not that Felix can blame him, Rizeal always did come with the wildest ideas.

“We came an hour or so early from the event itself happening. Given,” A quick glance around the empty street and Felix tacks on, “it is rather… desolate.” Logic would say there would be at least more people. There were only two bodies sitting about, one with a sign in their lap and a marker in their hand as they wrote out words and another huddling close to the front doors of the building.

It’s nothing promising, but Felix is sure he wasn’t promising either when Rizeal stumbled across him; Aizel most certainly wasn’t promising when they stumbled across him. This Ionar was their last ditch effort of doing things Rizeal’s way before she would heed way for Felix’s ideas.

Felix honestly thought she was putting too much faith on such a small thing. That’s what she always did, throwing her lot in with the things that were small and forgetful. It’s why he’d been whispering plots in her ears, slowly warming her up to the idea of _making_ the world change. Not simply giving it the option to change but to actually bend it to their will.

It was the only way he could see things getting done. Fight fire with fire, an eye for an eye. It might make the whole world blind, but sitting by and letting yourself be burned alive was no way to change the world.

Aizel’s like a skittish cat, never wanting to interact unless it’s on his own terms. Felix can feel the restlessness rippling off of him, the urge to go somewhere small and dark and wait for an opening. To wait it out and see what happens. Felix wasn’t like that though.

He never liked waiting. Never liked watching and _letting_ things happen.

He lets Aizel stay back, creeping around the outskirts as Felix marches straight up to the old man with the sign. “Hello, I was wondering… do you know of any…” A pause as he looks up into the sky as if debating on the words before, “event happening soon?”

The old man doesn’t even look up, white hair hanging around his head and shaky hold on the marker as he writes. The man heard him, Felix knows that with the small flinch the man did, but past that- nothing. Not a thought, not a sound.

He crouches down, getting a better look at the scarred face and the cardboard with the words _NEPHLIM JOBS ARE IMPO_ scrawled across it in black messy ink. “The event? I’m here for a friend of mine who’s interested in nephlim rights.” That’s what gets the man to look up at him. Interest sparks his pale eyes before the man opens his mouth and croaks out,

“It got cancelled.” The words are sour, the man’s face scrunching up as he says them as if biting into something rotten. “Tyria never showed so it got cancelled.” He spits out the last words like a curse, his hand shaking around the marker and making the letter he was writing wobble.

“Tyria… Ionar?” It’s an innocent question, fishing for an answer that already fits. The old man’s eyes widen, a quick nod of the head as he exclaims,

“Yeah! That’s the one. She said-“ A stutter in the words as he snarls out, “She said this would help us and then the stupid bint won’t even show. Left us for the dogs. Everyone knows they have no respect for us here; only reason she gets some is ‘cause her dad fought in the war. Inherited respect that she don’t deserve.” There’s resentment and betrayal wrapped around every single word. Blame for something Felix doesn’t know.

If he thinks about it, he’d know. There’s other things to pause and think about. Other things to worry about than the saltiness of an old man about a protest that is never going to happen. Maybe he hoped for change like Rizeal, but was unable to make it happen. Hinging all his hopes on the younger generation to do since he was too scared to act up on his own.

“Her dad fought in the war?” Aizel is peeking up behind them. He’s curious, not that Felix would blame him. The boy was probably 6 or so when the war ended. The only real memories he’d have are of his parents fleeing or fighting. Humans had the two choices whilst nephlims really only had the one.

“Yeah, fought on the human’s side against Nicholas. He was a healer, one of the few that actually did a damn thing.” The old man was no longer snarling, instead he sat up straighter and lets the marker drop from his hand as his anger fades to the sides. “Maybe if there were more like him we wouldn’t be here. So, of course people thought he could make a difference. Or that his daughter could make a difference.”

A laugh, cold and harsh escapes the man’s throat as he adds, “And she did. By showing what big fools all of us were.”

“There’s nobody here though.” Felix looks around, the place is still as empty as it was ten minutes ago. Nothing changed, the person cowering by the entrance was still there wrapped up in a huge blanket that covered their head.

“She called to cancel it hours ago. Didn’t even bother to show up or give a reason. Just… gave someone a letter saying it was cancelled.” The old man reaches back for the marker, his hand trembling as he picks it up from the grass. Aizel stands on the side, hovering with wide eyes. Obviously curious, nosey over every little thing like a child just released in the outside world.

The old man was tired though, tired and defeated. He wrote the words on the cardboard just to pretend there was something out there when there wasn’t. One more hope dashed and no hope left to stand on.

“Well, I can’t offer a protest or any grand thing like that but…” Felix hesitates, waiting for those pale eyes to look back up, “I do know somewhere that has a job open.” When one opening closes you make another. He’s sure he could find somewhere to put an old man that cared. He wasn’t planning on going Nicholas’s route after all. Human or nephlim, they all deserved the same things. Though, he had a hunch that the old man was a nephlim.

Possibly a healer, most doctors that ended up as nephlims got fired. The risk too great for their patients and if you spent your entire life learning how to heal and found yourself jobless… well, there weren’t many more opportunities to take. With any luck, the man would be a healer. Felix will be needing some of those in the coming months if everything falls into place.

“I don’t know what kind of job you’re offering but I’m not buying.” It’s suspicion that holds the old man’s tongue. Biting off offers that are untrustworthy. Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me. Felix was never one to fool people though. At least, not when it came to things of so little importance.

“There’s an accounting job up in Laqrea. Not a very busy place and the pay won’t be the best but it is a job.” Felix continues as if the man never rejected the offer. The man is still suspicious, as if there was some trap laid beneath the offer.

“Why would this… Tyria not showing up cause the protest to fall apart? You guys could have continued without her.” Aizel promptly goes back to the beginning. His eyes are furrowed and he’s pouting once again as he asks the questions. He’s thinking they are all idiots, surely. That everyone is just using someone else as a crutch so when the crutch disappears they are left stumbling to the ground and unwilling to get up.

As if they don’t have power in their own legs to get up and move. Felix doesn’t blame him, Aizel had a very black and white one sided view on things.

“No one listens to us. Half the people that were going to show up bailed the second they found out it was cancelled and the rest...” The old man snarls, a shifty glance around before he says, “Who’s going to listen to a senile man? Not any of you youngsters that’s for sure.”

“That’s why we’re here.” Aizel’s offended, puffing up his chest and getting ready for the coming argument. Felix quickly bites in,

“We want change too and we heard about this and thought… it’d be a good place to start, right?”

The old man squints at them, opening his mouth and Felix is quick to add, “The job offer was serious. We can’t do much, but we just want to make things easier and better. Even the tiniest things count, hmm?” Felix reaches down for the marker asking, “I could write down the address and you could check up on it on your own?”

The old man snatches the marker away and snaps out,“Piss off. I’m not falling for no trickery.”

“It’s not-“ Aizel sounds insulted, as if his pride has been wounded and he’s on the offensive now. Felix gives him a warning glance before,

“Okay, the offer still stands though. Just stop by Andreas if you ever change your mind. Tell them Nathan sent you.” Felix stands up, brushing off his pants before tugging Aizel away. Aizel was still spitting fury, chest puffed out and eyebrows furrowed. “C’mon buddy. We got what we wanted.”

“That’s not-“

“Who we were here for isn’t here. That’s what we were after. A location.” Another tug on Aizel’s sleeve as they walk back the way they came. “We got that, now we need to go get Rizeal and tell her that her plan was for naught.” It’s a blessing in disguise really, the last straw to make Rizeal cave into _his_ idea.

“And we aren’t going to do anything else? To…” Aizel gestures wildly to the research facility, the old man, and the person still curled up on the footsteps of the building. He’s still thinking they came for the protest, for talking people into giving nephlims more jobs or more rights. Maybe if the protest was actually happening they’d toss in their hats and help, but they weren’t going to make one happen that’s already been canceled.

Mavinsport was too tiny of a town for that. They were heading to the capitols for that, recruiting the promising ones and leaving the towns behind. That’s Rizeal’s plan anyways.

“It’s a lost cause already if they gave up because _one person_ didn’t show up. “ Aizel stares up with wide amber eyes as if not expecting him to say that. As if Felix could _never_ _think_ such things. Aizel was still new blood to how things went around in the group. Still naïve and idealistic and believing every word Felix spouted.

“But…” Aizel is petulant, giving another glance behind him as if that would change what he’d see. The grass was still dying, the trees bare in the winter air and the entire street an empty abyss with a few lost souls sitting about. It’s all a moot point, as Felix looked up he could see the familiar blonde head of Rizeal walking towards them.

“Andrea!” Felix shouts, watching as her head jolts up, wide blue eyes staring at them. He makes a come here motion, nudging Aizel to walk faster as they go to meet Rizeal. She’s expecting news like _I got lost_ or _we couldn’t find anything_ as if the other two weren’t good for anything.

That’s a lie. Felix knows Rizeal trusts them, or at least _him_ with her life. She might grouch about things but the trust is there. Thick and suffocating. Sometimes he wishes she didn’t trust him like that, too many times he had thoughts of manipulating her to his will. It’d be so easy after all. Just a single thought, a word. That’s all he needed.

“You two are going the wrong way, you know.” She snaps as soon as they are in spitting distance. She’s already releasing a sigh of exasperation, rolling her sky blue eyes to the heavens and twirling her finger in the air as if to tell them to _turn around_.

“It’s dead.” Felix chirps, wrapping an arm around Rizeal’s shoulders as he forces her to turn around. “So where’s our hotel room at? I feel like it’ll be a good day for an early night.” Aizel trips beside him, opening his mouth to refute and ruin everything so Felix rushes to add, “Your _Ionar_ didn’t show up. Not as promising as you thought, yeah?”

“What? How do you-“ Rizeal cranes her head back as if she’ll anything other than the dead street they walked up. As if suddenly it’ll become livelier and the noises of a protest will begin.

“A lost cause.” Felix hums, tugging Rizeal further up the road and away from the emptiness.

“We could…” Aizel starts, shutting up the second Felix slides his green eyes over to glare at the boy. Naïve child that doesn’t actually _think_. It was never about the town.

“Hotel first. We can drink our sorrows away tomorrow.” Felix demands with a grin. Rizeal has this glint in her eye, as if she’s suspicious. It’s there and gone in a second before she shoves Felix away and fixes the bag hanging on her shoulder.

“Well let’s not waste daylight then. Even if today is duller than expected.” She dusts her hands off before charging ahead and leading the way. Aizel sits back with a frown, amber eyes darting to each building they passed; sticking to the ones with windows where people bustled about their way.

“We aren’t going to…” He starts before biting his lip.

“There’s nothing for us to do.” Felix finishes.

Mavinsport was a broken town, the one where the war started and it never picked up its feet after. The buildings old, the people quiet. It was dangerous to stay outside, _the madness of magic consumed those that breathed the air too long_ they said.

A vital place for research, the large building being the only reason people flocked to the area. Mainly those fascinated with the disease, with the _power_.

Nothing good ever started from Mavinsport, but Rizeal was determined to see if there were some fruit ripe for the picking. Aizel was naïve thinking they were there to help when really all they’d do is take those that could help _them_.

Aizel frowns as he drops his gaze. Starring instead at the broken concrete under their feet. No longer looking at the brown and rotting buildings, or the ones overgrown with dead plants clinging to the walls. He’s thinking _it’s dead here. Everything is dead here._

Felix can feel the thought like a thorn under his thumb. Something stabbing, but easily washed away.

“What hotel did we get?” It doesn’t remove the thorn, but the words nudge it enough out of the way for Aizel to snap his gaze back to his two companions.

“Cheap one. You know we can’t afford anything extravagant. Thank the godlings the prices dropped because of winter.” Rizeal huffs out.

Felix laughs, “I’m sure we can afford _some_ luxury.” He taps his pocket and lets the coins jingle inside the cloth. “Not completely broke.”

“ _Yet_.” Rizeal snaps before stopping in front of a bricked building swallowed up in the shadows of its surroundings. “Here we are.” She waves a hand out towards the building. “Home sweet home.”

“At least for the night. Tomorrow we head back to Laqrea?” Felix inquiries as he steps up on the stairs leading to the doorway. The door is this rickety old thing, barely holding onto the hinges, but as he gives it a slight push the inside is much more welcoming and cozy. There’s a deep red rug over wooden floors and a fire thriving in the fireplace. There’s an elderly man at the counter napping the day away.

The breath Rizeal releases is full of defeat as she says, “Yes, tomorrow we’ll start planning for the CME.” Aizel has wide, innocent eyes. He doesn’t even know what’s coming, what’s going to happen when Felix gets to take the reins in their group.

He doesn’t even realize what he has to offer. What Felix plans on _taking_ from the little runaway soldier. Felix takes one look at the poor child, an unfortunate sacrifice before he stares at Rizeal and proclaims,

“Tomorrow is when everything will really begin.”


	4. To Change

“Tyria Ionar was a lost cause.” Felix scratches out the name on the piece of paper. “But, her pa is a healer so maybe not such a lost cause.” He adds a line then a question mark in startling red ink. “We are going to need some of those after all. Given, in the war he fought for the humans so he might not be very pro-nephlim.”

“Age is also a part of it. He’d be what, 50? 60? Retiring age. I wouldn’t be doing jack shit if I was that old.” Rizeal tacks an X next to the question mark.

“He’s still a possibility. We could look into why Tyria didn’t show up for her own protest and figure things out from there. Now what about…” Felix moves further down the list, skipping through names before circling Daicho, “Daicho is supposed to have one of the best healer schools with a focus for nephlims. You could try your whole… protest recruiting thing you do there.”

Rizeal puffs up in indignation and Felix can’t stop the smile from slipping onto his lips. “Joking, joking. But, Daicho- what do you think? We could hit some of the other cities and towns on the way up north.”

“It’s close to the CME’s main hospital too.” Aizel chirps up, leaning forward with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“What? Where’s that located? I thought the CME only used the human hospitals?” Felix perks up, scrambling through the pages before stopping at a blank page. He taps the red pen on the paper three times while staring up at the boy.

Aizel huffs a breath, smoke floating out and dispersing in the air around their three heads before he tugs at the map underneath the stack of papers Felix had sprawled out. “It’s not exactly a hospital, more of a research facility, but its right here.” He taps at a dot a few inches away from the dot labelled Daicho. “I used to work there, the upper levels are for urgent care and the bottom levels are the research facility.”

Felix gives a hum, dragging his papers closer to him. “You messed up my organization. I had a specific order for those-“

“Oh no,” Aizel reaches over and brushes some of the papers off of the tiny table, “whatever will you do.” He’s smiling at least, which is better than the pout he’s been giving them since they left Mavinsport. Doesn’t mean Felix appreciates the brattish behavior though.

“You bloody brat-“ Felix snaps, scrambling to grab the papers floating to the floor. Rizeal gives a sigh before she taps on the tiny wooden table between them,

“Focus idiots. Okay so, let’s say we go to Daicho- what’s the plan? I think we should stick south. If they have a secure job they aren’t going to want to risk anything. So we should be going after the ones that _don’t_ have that going for them.” Rizeal taps one of the dots further to the west side of the map.

“Untrained healers would be useless to us. They’re just as likely to kill someone as they are to save them. Oh hey, I know you’re missing a leg so I regrew it but I fucked up so now you’ll have two legs on one hip joint.” Felix snaps, frowning down at the paper. He’s seen it done before too, a novice healer taking on more than they can chew.

“So we _train_ them. You have books, I have connections. Aizel knows his way around places and I’m sure the others can come up with something. Natalia’s sister is learning to be a healer, so I’m sure she knows some things.” Rizeal has this stubborn look in her eye, hands folded on the table as she leans even closer.

“You can only train so much. Some people that are healers aren’t actually _gifted_. It’s spelling for disaster if you guys just pick up any street urchin.” Aizel pipes up, his previous mischievous grin wiped from his face. “At Dracein they did experiments with it. Nasty, awful things. If you couldn’t afford medical it was the best thing you could get and they made you sign all these papers. If it went wrong they were not to be held accountable.”

“We can’t be picky though- not if we are planning to do this sooner rather than later. If we just bide our time waiting for trained healers… We won’t get anywhere.” Felix frowns down at the papers, moving them around to get them back in their original order. “We could-“

“I don’t know why you think you can talk someone out of a guaranteed job to a life where they will most likely end up being hunted down if things go sour.” Rizeal is the voice of reason, she always is. She’s like Felix’s conscious, the little voice in his head telling him that everything he thinks of is a bad idea. “Plus, if we are going to recruit the elder Ionar then it’d be better to be close by. It’s at least a week long journey from Daicho to Mavinsport and that’s if we don’t stop for rest. An old man could never do that kind of journey.”

“That’s true. How about this…” Felix hums, bringing the piece of paper with three dots on it closer to him. He scribbles down the names Daicho and Dracein, then circled Dracein and writing the word _possibility_ on the side before going lower on the page, “what if we just stayed on the shoreline? Not too far but if need be we could travel by sea to get to Mavinsport faster. And there’s more nephlims on the shorelines anyways.”

He scribbles down the word shore, writing down the names of the towns and cities close by. Rizeal makes a humming noise before adding, “There’s some groups around those areas that we could grab people from. Or even… we could merge? We’d have to do some work and see who’d even be willing to go with this.” She gestures at all of the papers. All of the scribbled red words depicting possibilities and ideas.

“It shouldn’t be that hard. I mean, it’s not _right_ what they do. How they go about it.” Aizel huffs out another smoke filled breath before stubbing the cigarette out on the table.

“Careful, careful. All of this _is_ flammable you know?” Rizeal scolds, a disappointed scowl on her face as she wipes away the butt of the cigarette. “And just because it isn’t right doesn’t mean that people will be willing to become terrorists.”

“We aren’t-“ It’s an age old argument, one Felix is honestly tired of hashing out.

“Attacking the CME unprovoked _makes_ us terrorists.” Rizeal bites out.

“What does that make them then? They _kill_ people for no bloody reason! Oh, you’re a hybrid? Guess what, to the chopping block you go! Look what happened to bloody _Nathan_!” The words fall from Felix’s mouth like poison. He’s leaning forward, halfway standing as he glares over at Rizeal.

“Just because _they_ are monsters doesn’t mean _we_ need to be monsters. There’s more than just _violence_ to get things to change.” She’s bitter, sour and guilty. Nathan was a soft spot for both her and Felix and Felix can’t help but dig his fingers into it and _tear_. Aizel sits back, eyes wide and clueless and _he’s such a naïve child_.

Felix’s lips tighten as sits back and grabs the red pen again. “Your way didn’t get anything done. Nothing has changed, just more and more death. We aren’t- we’re getting healers so that _nobody_ dies. It’s just to send a message. To say hey, we are here. We aren’t going to stand by and just let them kill nephlims. That we’ll actually _do_ something. Not just stand on the streets and yell things at them or talk about things.”

“It’ll start a war. It’s not going to go the way you want it to, you should know this. When has it ever-“ Rizeal bites her lips before swallowing down whatever she was going to say. “Anyways, are we in agreeance at least on where we are going next?”

“Even if it did start a war, it would just be us and the CME. Humans don’t like dealing with the nephlim populace.” Aizel says after a moment of stilted silence. Voice timid and small at first. “It’s actually- The CME tries not involve humans as much as possible and most nephlims would surely be on our side rather than the CME.”

“It’s not- How old are you? Did you even live through the war? The aftermath? The CME was _built_ by humans. They wouldn’t just-“ Rizeal spits out the words, lips thinning before she adds in a much calmer voice, “The CME is there because of the humans. That’s something you both need to understand.”

“Not exactly, it was the so called hero that formed it. Or the laws for it anyways. Nephlims are the ones that actually enforce everything. Humans just sit around and make the rules they enforce.” Felix taps the paper with the pen, adding a fourth ink blotch on the paper.

“I lived through that- Just because I’m not as old as you two doesn’t mean I don’t know what happened!” Aizel sits up straight, a scowl taking over his features and eyes darkening as he glares over at Rizeal.

“And that’s why you joined the CME, right?” Rizeal scoffs.

“I was drafted!” Aizel stands up, voice raising with every word he shouts, “I’m not even a bloody nephlim to begin with and I was drafted!”

Rizeal’s eyes shift to the side, silence sinking into the room after the outburst. It’s stilted, Aizel still standing, chest heaving and Rizeal refusing to acknowledge the words. Felix is left floating, unsure of the proper words to say for once in his life.

Rizeal was still angry, she’s always angry. Furious that Tyria wasn’t there, that her last stance was broken and lost leaving her with Felix. She didn’t agree, she never would. She didn’t see how it’d help.

She didn’t see how if the CME was dismantled they’d be free. They could do her peaceful route afterwards; do all the talking and negotiating _afterwards_. Until then, the CME stood in the way. This unflinching killing machine that just followed the laws that were passed blindly.

Yes, they could do peace talks and whatever else Rizeal wanted _now,_ but it’d just be squashed ruthlessly by the CME whenever they seem to threatening. Rizeal knows it, he _knows_ she knows that. She just doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Like she doesn’t want to acknowledge everything else.

They’ve seen it happen before, back when Felix agreed wholeheartedly with Rizeal. Back when Nathan was still alive and leading them, promising them impossibilities that they thought were possible. Nathan always promised _a new world. A better world. Where everyone is equal and the same. Where it didn’t matter what kind of magic you had or even if you did have magic._ He always promised a change.

A change that none of them even thought of. Rizeal being her protesting self never thought of the big picture. She only thought of the tiny bits and Felix never once thought of the possibility of those kinds of changes. It was something Felix has since learned would never be possible, at least not with the CME in existence.

“I think... This is enough for now. We have things to look into. Aizel,” Amber eyes burning with frustration look over at Felix as he speaks, “look into Ionar and Tyria. Figure out why she vanished, what she was involved in, things we can use to get her dad to join us.”

Aizel just stares, emotions fluttering through his eyes before it stills into a yellow lake and he nods. He gives one last glare over in Rizeal’s direction before pushing himself away and leaving. The door to the small room slams shut and the walls quake around them.

Felix sighs, pinching his nose before looking over to Rizeal. She’s looking properly shamed, mouth pinched and arms folded across her chest as she digs her chin down. The words are weak when Felix says, “You can’t just- You _agreed_.”

“I know. I know I did, it’s just…” Rizeal sighs, blue eyes flashing up at him behind her golden hair. “This isn’t going to go well. Aizel shouldn’t even- He’s just a kid.”

“We were that age when we started.” The words taste empty as soon as they leave Felix’s mouth.

“And look how that ended. Nathan is dead and both of us are using false names. Can’t even go home because we are counted as _wanted criminals_. I got a mom at home who thinks I’m dead.”

“It wasn’t because of _that_ though. You know that. It was-“ Felix stops, unable to put the words in his mouth and Rizeal just stares at him with these horribly sad eyes.

“I know.”

She’s the only one that does.

“We’ll still use your protests as a cover. But we need to actually plan what we are going to do. What we’ll attack. I’m thinking…” Felix taps the name Dracein with the red pen. “It’d be a good way to send the message. And it’s further away from civilians. Plus, Aizel would know his way around.”

“We’d be attacking a hospital, that’s not exactly a message we want to send. That we’re willing to injure the helpless and innocent.” Rizeal cautions, but she’s speaking softly. Bending oh so softly to the idea.

“That’s why we’d get the healers. Your plan remember? To make sure there are no actual casualties? And… if we do go for Dracein we won’t actually hit the hospital level, mainly just the research levels. You heard Aizel, it’s practically human experimentation.” Felix goads, reaching out to touch her hand.

“We won’t rush this. Everything will go exactly as planned.” Felix offers a cocky grin, “We aren’t those naïve brats anymore after all. We know how this world works.”

Rizeal’s laugh sounds more like a sob but she’s nodding her head. “Let’s go south first. I want to hit up Avalion. There… there’s supposed to be this big group of nephlim rights activists down there. It’s where I met Tyria before. One of the meetings they had about the decrease in jobs for nephlims.”

“Sounds solid.” He clasps Rizeal’s arm, “Would you mind cleaning up in here? I’m going to go find Natalia and see what she thinks about the healers.” He waits for Rizeal’s nod before getting up from his chair and leaving the back room of Andreas.

The lights are bright in the tiny shop, light flooding in through the wide windows in the front of the store. Much brighter than the barely lit back office they sequestered as their headquarters. It fit its purpose though, something hidden in plain sight that no one would take a second glance at.

Kristen is sitting in the front, folding paper planes and paper cranes and setting them out on the desk. An interesting soul, that one. “Anything happen?” Felix asks, walking straight up to the desk.

Kristen yelps, bolting straight up and staring with wide brown eyes at Felix. “Well- Um. No. No one really is interested in your guys’ shit. I’m telling you, you’d have better luck selling nephlim mummies.” The brat leans back in the chair, crossing his heel over his knee before flicking one of the paper planes onto the floor.

“Uh huh. Just shut up and do your job why don’t you?” Felix laughs, reaching over to rustle the brat’s hair.

“Hey, hey! Leave the hair alone, you old man!” Kristen is shouting, quickly shoving at Felix’s hand and trying to duck away.

“What, trying to impress some girl?” Felix was joking when he said the words but in a flash he could actually _see_ the girl. Some young, pretty thing. He retracts his hand and just settles at smirking at the young boy.

“Maybe. So what if I am.” Kristen is puffing up in agitation. Eyes cross and a pout on his lips.

“Nothin’, nothin’. I wish you luck in your lady wooing. Don’t let me catch you napping later though!” Felix pats the boys head before heading out of the shop.

Laqrea was a rather large city. Loud and busy, cars polluting oxygen as they stalled and rumbled up and down the paved streets. Horses wondered about, but not as many as people preferred walking or the automotive transportation in the city. Not enough space for everyone to have their own stables and renting a stable was horribly expensive.

If one was born in the city, they usually never left. Aizel being a prime example. The CME barely moved him out, just right on the doorsteps of another city. Felix was almost in the same boat, probably would have been in the exact same boat if it weren’t for Nathan.

Felix breathes in the air, shutting his eyes and letting the woes of the city wash over him. The thoughts prickling his own mind, emotions rubbing off onto him before vanishing into thin air. He honestly loved cities, they felt so _alive_. Nothing like the countryside where everything was quiet and still.

Natalia worked a nice distance away, a mile or so if Felix were to guess. A good hike and, peeking up at the sky, he might be there just around lunch time. Natalia always was fond of food and he might need to bribe her if he’s going to be inquiring about her sister.

Natalia was one of the bartenders to a renowned bar. One that opened at 10 and stayed open until 5 in the morning. Small and cozy in the early hours and then crowded and loud later on in the night. One of the few places that opened its arms to nephlims needing a job.

Natalia was, not exactly older but she was on the higher end of her 20’s. Rizeal was the one who found her struggling to take care of her baby sister after her parents got fired from their jobs. A helping hand and a debt owed and Natalia was suddenly helping them with the easy tasks. When they left for extended periods of time Natalia was the one that made sure Andreas was kept alive and running.

“Nathan. What brings you here?” Natalia is at the bar wiping down the glasses when she notices Felix walking up to the bar. She pauses for a second to make eye contact before looking back at the wine glass she was wiping down.

“Hey Nat, I was just wondering if you would be interested in grabbing some food?” He offers his most charming smile, sliding into one of the swivel chairs and leaning on his forearms.

“Getting a bit late for that don’t you think?” The words are calm and collected, but Felix would have to be blind to not notice the way she tensed. She’s suspicious, she always was whenever Felix reaches out. Usually it was Rizeal dealing with her since the two had a friendship going whilst Felix stayed on the sidelines.

Rizeal wasn’t the best at certain things though and… well.

Felix trusted his ability to twist the conversation into his favor if push comes to shove.

“Never too late to grab some food. Plus, I have something I wanted to ask you about.” Those words got her attention, murky eyes snapping up to stare at him before she gives a sigh.

“Give me… ten minutes. I need to finish this and let Thomas know I’ll be taking my break now instead of later.” She’s already sliding the glasses up on the high shelf behind her. Felix just keeps smiling, chirping out,

“I’ll be here waiting.”

It takes her a bit longer than ten minutes, but Felix doesn’t mind too much. He settles in, gaze dragging around the little bar. There’s barely any people, a couple sitting by the window and talking in whispers and there’s an older man at the other end of the bar reading a newspaper.

He wouldn’t have given the old man a second glance if it wasn’t for the headline on the newspaper in big bold, black letters **_NEPHLIM PROTESTOR MURDERED._** He pauses, staring at the newspaper and then suddenly Natalia is tapping on his shoulder.

“Are you ready?” She shifts on her feet, cocking her head in the direction to the door. Felix gives a hum, one last glance towards the newspaper before hopping off of the bar stool and swinging an arm out in a lazy form of a bow.

“Ladies first.” Natalia rolls her eyes at his words before heading out the door. “Is there any where specifically you want to eat? Me personally, I could kill for some noodles.”

“I’m sure you’ve killed for less.” The words aren’t even snarky. Natalia says them as if she honestly _believes_ them. Felix isn’t sure how to tell her that he actually has never _killed_ anyone. He’s just seen people die. He laughs it off as if it’s a joke anyways.

“So, want to hit up Umichi’s?” Felix suggests. Natalia offers up a shrug; shoving her hands into her pockets as she caved in on herself. He gives a sigh before leading the way. There’s no way the two of them could do small talk, not with how Natalia is prepared for the worst.

It makes him wonder what Rizeal told her, or what she thought she knew. Sure Felix looked a bit on the guff side with the red dye he put in his hair faded more often than not and scruff on his chin, but he wasn’t exactly _scary_. Felix was all bark and no bite in all honesty. The only people he ever _did_ bite deserved it.

“So, we’re looking for healers.” No reason for Felix to beat around the bush.

Natalia instantly stiffens, footsteps haltering for a second before she’s charging forward and shoving at Felix, “No. You are not- No. My sister is _not_ getting involved in your silly little war.”

Normally, he’d say _isn’t that her choice_ but he knew what a landmine those words would be. Instead he raises his hands, placating and calm as he says, “We can talk about it at Umichi’s over a hot cup of noodles. It’s nothing too serious, promise.”

A wary glance, Natalia is still scowling but she relents, backing away and going back to her sulking slouch.

Felix debated on saying something else, but sometimes silence is better. Natalia was already a fuming ball of anger, turning his words over and over in her head. She’s trying to find the trick, he can tell. She’ll keep searching until she finds it, not even giving a thought that maybe, just _maybe_ Felix doesn’t actually mean to screw her and her sister over.

Umichi’s is a large sit down restaurant, brown wooden tables with a deep blue wool covering the center. Some have candles, others have the little ceiling lights that flicker on and off. There’s a waitress standing in the front, tapping at some piece of paper and counting what Felix assumes is the tables.

She looks up, smiles and asks, “Just two?”

“Yes, table for two. The name is Nathan.” Felix gives her a bright smile, Natalia melting in the background somewhere behind him.

The waitress grabs two menus throwing out the words, “If you could follow me.” She pauses, checking one last chance that Felix and Natalia are following before she leads them further into the restaurant.

They are seated at a table by one of the tiny windows, a candle flickering on the table between them. The waitress slides the menus down to their respective seats before informing them, “Jannel will be your waitress; she’ll be here in a few minutes.” The girl flashes a smile before taking a step back and aiding another group of people waiting at the front.

Felix bids her a goodbye before turning his attention onto Natalia who’s stubbornly browsing through the menu. “It’s really not that bad, we aren’t looking to recruit your sister. I was just wondering if she’d be willing to _train_ people.”

Natalia freezes, eyes no longer stuttering over the menu before she looks up. She’s still frowning, eyes tired and worn as she spits out, “No. My sister isn’t getting involved.”

“She wouldn’t be touching anything. If anything it would _help_ with her studies. We are just… we’re going to recruit some healers who might not actually _know_ anything, they’d just have the magic. We just want her to offer some... pointers or suggestions. We just want her to meet them when we have them.”

He’s calm, eyes not even flickering away from Natalia’s tense face. He gives her a minute before Felix starts thumbing through the menu. “Rizeal was the one who came up with the idea. It’s not a bad one. You know Samantha has been itching to actually do something to help. Really, it’s a good option.”

“What do you mean _good option_? That’s not an option.” Natalia straightens up her posture, eyes narrowing even more. “She’s not getting involved. I want you and your slimy hands as far away from her as possible.”

“Rude and offensive.” Felix pauses on one of the pages in the menu, making a humming noise. “I’ve talked to her before you know, she actually came over to Andreas and asked what she can do to help. I told her there was nothing for her to do, but she is interested.”

Natalia’s eyes get wide, there’s panic brimming in her mind about the possibilities of things going _wrong_. “I’m not going to try to recruit her. She’s got a perfectly happy life as is. Just, we could use the help.”

“I can help.” Natalia snaps, hands folded on the table and knuckles going white with how tight her fingers clench together.

“You’re a great druid. We don’t- We need _healers_. Not-“ Felix raises a hand when he sees Natalia tenses again readying herself for an argument, “Not your sister. She doesn’t even need to know that it’s for _us_. Just say you had some friends that want to learn how to use-“

The waitress, Jannel Felix supposes, pops up with a bright smile, “What could I get for you two to drink?”

“Two waters please.” Felix doesn’t even wait for Natalia to speak.

“Two waters and… do you know what you will be eating today?” The waitress scribbles down something on the paper before giving them an inquiring look. Felix cocks his head in Natalia’s direction, cocking an eyebrow. Her mouth tilts to the side for a second before she looks up to the waitress and offers her order. Felix quickly follows with his best smile.

Felix waits for the waitress to turn before the smile drops from his face and he continues, “We are just looking for a way to teach people a few tricks. She doesn’t even have to know what it is for.”

“That’s still-“ Natalia chews on her lips before she rewords her thoughts, “She’ll find it weird if I suddenly bring people over to learn things about healing.” She’s still twisting the words in her mind, turning them every way and looking for the trick. Felix lets her.

“So ask after her studies, say you have a friend that’s trying to get into healer school, but didn’t make the cut.” The words fall smoothly over Felix’s tongue like water. Lies for someone else to say for him. If Natalia agrees, he knows she’ll say them. That way she can still blame someone else if everything goes upside down.

“That’s-“ She frowns and Felix leaves her to her thoughts. Silence is a welcome friend engulfing them in a warm hug. He thumbs through the menu some more.

“Have you met Aizel yet?” It’s an innocent inquiry, something that he could build on later depending on how it goes. Natalia doesn’t even pause at the name, brows furrowing before she’s asking,

“Who?”

“New kid. I found him a few months ago. Ran away from the CME.” Felix continues to thumb through the menu, flipping the pages back and forth as if he found something interesting. He hasn’t even read a single word on the menu after ordering.

“He’s from the CME? And you brought him _here?”_ Natalia honestly sounds repulsed; when Felix looks up he can see her recoil away. “Why?”

“He’s human.” Is all Felix offers before getting to the real reason he brought the kid up, “I was wondering if you’d be willing to take him under your wing? Get him a job with Tanya?”

Natalia freezes, pauses and her mind is a whirlwind before she finally says, “I’ll think about it.”

It gets her mind off of her sister though. Felix smiles, “Rizeal and myself would greatly appreciate it.”

Natalia hums, still tense and wary but throughout the lunch she relaxes bit by bit. Not enough to do anything and she still hasn’t _promised_ anything but she’s melting. Slowly. She still warns Felix off of her little sister, but it didn’t go as badly as it could have.

Quite promising if someone were to ask Felix. All he needs is for Rizeal to butter her up and maybe slide a baby healer into her bar asking for help and Natalia would be sold. No point in angering the families to get things done.

As Felix heads back to Andreas he notices a little grocer and suddenly remembers the old man. Mainly the newspaper and the headline and he’s curious. The place is a small little thing, nothing grand like some of the others. Probably owned by some local that lived a bit aways.

Right by the clerk is a stack of newspapers. It’s a quick transaction, Felix flashing a smile and a greeting as he trades coins for paper. The walk back the newspaper burns his hand. The possibilities, the thoughts because what if _this_ was an explanation.

Or if it was a gate opening to other possibilities?

Or a warning, of other possible difficulties he and Rizeal should be wary of?

It was both. It was neither.

The newspaper boldly confirmed the death of one Tyria Ionar with the possibilities of anti-nephlim associations carrying out the murder. Tyria’s death was one hundred percent a murder, a bullet shot to the stomach. There were no signs or warnings on _who_. Just a shot in the dark that made a hit.

The impact it made was borderline explosive.


	5. Broken Secrets

His hand hurts. A deep ache, one that echoes up his arm and hits his heart before trembling its way back down to his balled-up fist. There’s blood; _of course there is blood_ , a smear against dark skin and shattered glass. The tender flesh of his knuckles are an open wound with shards of glass teasing the edges. He can’t help but stare, to unfurl his hand and inspect the damage, and then his eyes flicker up and it’s-

Wrong. Everything Patrick sees looks _wrong_. The skin color that’s too dark, the hair that wasn’t curly enough, the green, green eyes, and the fat that softened every single one of his features. He looks broken and wrong with the deep shadows and even deeper wrinkles, his hair a lackluster brown, and his lips unable to form even an attempt of a smile.

There are times, like now, when he would just stare in the mirror and think. Think and regret; lament the bills piled high on his broken table and the last opened envelope with the crisp white paper displaying the word _BANKRUPT_ in big red letters. Regret his fridge that contained little else than beer, and he’d rue this stupid, _stupid_ cottage that he got for the love of his life eons ago. Now he has a broken mirror to mourn, the cracks like a web trying to catch every single mistake he has.

His phone rings, a jarring sound that has Patrick scrambling to pick it up. Blood touches grey, it smears, and the silence that follows suffocates until-

“Hey, are you coming? We’ve-“ Static erupts, eating half of the sentence before, “past hour, and if you aren’t going to show up _again_ , you should at least tell us.” The voice is snappy, something that is only enhanced by the sharp thunder rumbling in the device.

Patrick freezes, mind drawing a blank as he tries to match the broken voice. To recognize and think of a face to match. A face that might match, he’s not sure. He’s not sure of anything anymore outside of the shattered mirror and his bleeding hand and the ache that consumes his very being.

His memories were simply another crack in the mirror, as faulty and incomplete as the pieces of glass scattered on the bathroom counter.

“Yes, I- I lost track of time. That’s all. I’m on my way.” His voice stutters, broken in places where it shouldn’t break, and everything is just so _obviously wrong_. 

“You always lose track of time nowadays. Is everything alright? I know since-“

“I’m fine- you know how shitty the signal is here, just give me ten minutes and I’ll be there.” The snap is like the end of one thing and the beginning of another. Patrick looks back at the bleeding mirror, then his broken hand, and finally the blood smeared across the both of them. The blood that had trickled onto the dirty counter and started to dip into the off-white sink.

The water is cold, a shock to his system as he ducks his hand into it and splashes away the rivulet of blood tainting the sink and counter. His hand is a trembling mess as water forces its way into the cuts and open sores, and the glass tumbles away like a child scorned. He won’t be able to hide it, he wasn’t one of those disease-ridden _freaks_ who could just magic their way into a fully healed hand with just a thought, just a word.

Sometimes, he thinks he might be. He can see the wound closing on its own in his head. He can watch the flesh knitting back together to leave an unblemished hand, but as soon as his eyes open his knuckles are split open once again. His mirror is still broken. He continues to look, feel, _be_ wrong. He is still an everyday average human. Still normal, boring, _stupid_ Patrick who opened up a bakery after his life fell apart without a thought.

His life fell apart with the lack of a heartbeat, actually. Whether it was his heart or her heart that stopped, he honestly doesn’t know. Maybe it was both.

The water is cut off, a few spluttering complaints cutting into his knuckles before he’s reaching, reaching-

For something. Part of him wants to say he had the bandages in the cracked mirror, but the second he goes to reach for the fractured mess, something clicks. It wasn’t in this house, it was in another house. A different house, a happier home. Patrick isn’t sure he ever even _had_ that happy abode. Maybe once, in a dream.

Dreams are something best forgotten about. They are the demons that haunt you about things you wish and want for and will never have. Dreams are the worst kind of nightmare, a fantasy that your mind tries to entrap you with. Sometimes, he wonders if reality was just a dream.

Maybe, in reality, she never died. 

Sometimes, he doesn’t even know who _she_ is supposed to be.

There’s a face, but it’s like a dream. Something he’s tried so hard to forget about and ignore that it no longer exists. A fantasy he made out of reality, or maybe a reality he made out of a nightmare.

The phone sings again, a sharp whistle that jabs into Patrick’s mind. 

He doesn’t even answer; he already knows what he’ll hear. Instead he sweeps it into his pocket and takes one last look at the broken mirror. His shattered mind echoes back in the reflection before he turns and braves the chilling beast waiting outside.

It’s a quick walk to Dangerous Drink, the wind urging Patrick to walk faster with its freezing shove.

The bar is this charming, quaint place. Soothing warm browns with candles strewn about in hues of reds; there’s even a fat television propped up on the counter. It’s crowded, he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen it _not_ busy except maybe when it first opened. 

There’s a roar as he ducks inside, feet shuffle across the wooden floor as snow filters in through the open door. Another shout, a greeting he thinks, as he looks around before-

There’s two men, tucked away in a corner of the bar far away from the masses; the darker of the two raises his beer again before, “Patrick!” 

Patrick’s feet are moving before he can even register the word. Even then, something is off- _everything_ is off. He doesn’t know them, but they know him but- he does. He _has_ to know them. He’s not that far gone, not yet.

And he does, he _does_ know them. He remembers high school and the opening of a bakery and graduation of some police academy, and he remembers sitting in the rain at a funeral. The dark-skinned one jostles his beer, a blush high on his cheeks, and Patrick _knows him_. He knows that he knows him.

It’s just… nothing is there. He’s grasping for straws, grasping for those missing pieces in that fractured mirror, and there’s nothing to grab hold of. 

“I told you I was coming.” Patrick slides into the seat in front of the two men. He makes a halted motion to take off his coat before shoving his wounded hand out of sight.

“Well excuse me for doubting, you just hadn’t made it to the last three. Honestly, I thought you forgot about us.” He’s the one in the police force, Patrick remembers that. Police force, but a desk job. He’s got a wife too, he remembers her hand on that dark skin at the funeral. He-

“I’m sorry, something came up at the bakery. Didn’t have the time. I promise I could never forget about you.” Patrick laughs, the smile comes in like a sliver that he found from the splintered mirror and then-

Aiden softens, melting like butter with his golden eyes turning into half crescent, dark skin crinkling at the corner before he’s asking, “How is your little shop going? Refurbishing it, right?” Maxwell just stares at Patrick with his doubting blue eyes that seem more gray than blue. Someone harder to remember, but Patrick can remember _him_ perfectly. Aiden’s the only one that feels like a dream.

He can’t remember Maxwell at the funeral. He just remembers a hospital bed and the tiniest cut on a pale, pale wrist. 

“It’s… going. Should be able to open it soon.” It’s the biggest lie he’s told. Patrick knows the difference between fantasy and reality, after all. He’s seen the papers, looked at his finances. He’d be lucky to have the cottage in a year. Given, there’s a chance he might not even need the place by next year.

He actually won’t need it. Not with the itch that’s been crawling around his skin for the past month. Not if the ideas and plans come together like they should. There’s nothing left for him after all. His bakery all but a childhood dream that he got to see for a few months before it went under.

“Really? Tell me the date and time, and me and Brianna will be the first people there!” Aiden looks like a puppy, eyes bright and grin sloppy. His face is redder than brown, dimples high in his cheeks and he goes to take another drink before-

“Nope, Aiden. Water first. I’m not dealing with you when you are drunk off your arse.” Maxwell snatches the glass away as he shoves a glass of water closer. Those pale eyes quickly glancing back at Patrick before, “I was worried about that. I know money’s been tight lately; just let me know if you ever need any help, okay?” 

“It’s fine. I’m a big boy now. I can take care of myself.” He can’t, though. He doesn’t think he ever could. He has memories of it, but those are more like dreams nowadays than anything else. Everything is like a dream, really; the bakery, the funeral, that week where everything was just _too much_.

“I know but-“ 

“Hello, would you like anything? Any refills for you, gentlemen?” The waitress has a soft voice and a harsh expression. A pad of paper is open in her waiting hand with a pen impatiently awaiting their answers. Aiden’s instantly soppy; a doped-up smile falling across his lips as he simpers out a,

“Two more beers, please, beautiful.”

“And if we could get another glass of water?” Maxwell is quick to throw out the words as he pushes the untouched water even closer to Aiden.

“Is there anything for you?” The waitress’s eyes skid over to Patrick, who gives the brightest grin he can manage. He’s about to raise a hand to wave her off when Aiden pipes up, “Oh, one of those beers are for him. But Imma pay for it so it will be going on my check. Rough times, ya know?”

Patrick doesn’t hold back from the nasty glare he sends over to Aiden, who still has that besotted smile on his face. The waitress gives a hum, scribbling down something on the pad of paper in her hand, “Is that everything?” 

Maxwell gives a smile, dismissing her, and as soon as she leaves Patrick snaps. “What would Brianna think of you flirting with the waitress? I’m sure she wouldn’t be too happy.”

“Are you kidding? She’d be proud of me! The Godlings know how she’s dealt with me for so long as is. It’d be a reprieve I tell you.” Aiden’s laughing, reaching for his glass as Maxwell tuts at him with a pointed nudge to the glass of water.

“I swear you act like you’re my mother. Don’t you have someone else to worry about?” Maxwell rolls his eyes and practically sighs out,

“Maybe if you acted less like a child, I wouldn’t have to mother you. You might think Brianna would be happy without you, but she’d kill me if I let you poison yourself to death.”

Aiden gives a second to pout, downing a gulp of water before he bounces back with eyes wide, “Oh, did you hear? The CME stopped by earlier today. Apparently, one of those nephlim freaks went crazy and started killing people.” 

Patrick freezes as horror trickles into his bones at the suggestion- at the mere _thought_. “What? But there aren’t supposed to be any nephlims this far west. It spreads too easily here.” Spreads easier, more dangerous, and they don’t have any of the leeches to prevent the disease from claiming its victims. It’s why everything fell apart to begin with.

“I know! It’s that one killer supposedly. The uh…” Aiden’s face scrunches up, and his hand flails in the air. Maxwell dives to the rescue as he pushes the glass of water even closer to the man.

“The shapeshifter one? Ghost? I know my father was worried about that one. Sent a letter a few days ago about it. Apparently, he started moving west a while ago and recently vanished from the news. The CME doesn’t even know where he went off to. Why would he even come to Demsen?” Maxwell’s voice is a soft hush, leaning in closer as if he was giving a secret away.

“They have suspicions. That’s what they came in today for. Some real short kid with this tall man. Supposedly he started using his magic again and led them here? They were asking about any suspicious events or if anyone started acting real odd.” Aiden’s loud, his voice echoes in the corner. Patrick can feel the curious eyes of the other bar-goers burning into their table.

“Are you even supposed to be talking about this?” It’s a serious question, he remembers the big mouth during their high-school years. Namely, he remembers getting ripped a new one when Aiden inevitably spilled the beans about whatever illegal stunt they were playing with at that time.

Aiden leans back with a cringe. The guilty look on his face says everything. Maxwell stares at him before spitting out, “So you decide to tell us. In a bar. Without even whispering.”

“Hey, look. I’m just letting you guys know the dangers-“

“You’re an idiot. The biggest idiot, I swear to Otelis it is a miracle you even got hired.” The words are thrown out into the air as if they were an ax. Aiden looks injured, betrayal written across his face as he sputters out,

“It’s not _that_ big of a deal. It’s,” A bitten lip as Aiden tries to think of a reasonable explanation, but he can’t. They all know he can’t. He never could think of lies to save his life. Patrick remembers a stuttering child surrounded by adults and questionable circumstances.

Maxwell never fit into those memories. He might not have even been involved in those events of their past.

Aiden gives a quick glance around the pub before whispering, “Okay, technically, we aren’t supposed to talk about it. But not because it’s some secret! We just don’t want to worry the civilians or have the rumor reach the killer _if_ he’s even here. There’s no proof he’s here after all. Just some hunch.”

“It’s still-“ There’s another sigh, Maxwell looks as if someone forced the air out of his lungs. 

The waitress comes to the rescue, a scowl firmly in place as she deposits the drinks. “Two beers and a water. Was there anything else you guys would like?” The glasses slide across the smooth wood of the table. Aiden throws her a grin, the same besotted smile from earlier as he says,

“No, that would be all. Thank you!” 

She gives a cursory glance around before giving a hum and grabs the nearly empty glass of beer Aiden was working on earlier before leaving. Aiden keeps his soppy smile, “She’s so lovely, isn’t she?”

“Oh, you aren’t changing the conversation just because you’re an idiot. Why would you even say anything? Here of all places? It’d be more understanding if it was in your house, but literally anyone can hear you.” Maxwell scolds, his eyebrows dipping low and frown deepening as he watches Aiden.

Aiden just fidgets, a wary glance towards Maxwell before he hesitatingly grabs one of the beers. “Look, it really isn’t that big of a deal, okay? I’m just letting you guys know. So be careful, right? Anyone that seems suspicious or new just… stay away. Especially if it’s one of the plague-ridden rats from the CME. Who knows what kind of trickery they get up to.”

Maxwell is staring down at Aiden with the face of disappointment when Patrick decides to risk it. He hasn’t forgotten, after all, his right hand carefully tucked out of view. Or mostly out of sight. It’s one of the few things he does remember. He can still feel the glass sliding through his fragile skin.

He shouldn’t have, even if Maxwell and Aiden were distracted. The open cuts seem to attract their attention like fire draws in a moth. “What- What happened? Are you okay?” Maxwell swings his head over like a worried mother. His hands reach out to grab the wounded hand Patrick has wrapped around the glass of beer.

“Oh, it’s- it’s fine. Just a brawl I got into.” Patrick is retracting his hand, leaving the beer unattended. He shifts in the chair as he avoids Maxwell’s searching gaze. “So about the CME-“

“That didn’t look like it was from a brawl. Let me-“ Maxwell’s frown is definitely pointed at Patrick. He can feel it prickling at his skin even as he stares determinedly at the table.

“Did you at least report it? I haven’t heard anything about a brawl.” Aiden’s probably relieved in all honesty. Patrick just opened himself up and got Maxwell to stop thinking about Aiden’s big mouth and lack of thinking.

“I told you, it’s fine. Nothing to be worried about.”

“It looked fresh, was that why you were late? Usually, you either show up on time or not at all, so if it was-“ Maxwell is still reaching out, wiggling his fingers as if that would entice Patrick into giving him his hand.

“That’s rich coming from you. I don’t remember you showing up to most things.” Patrick snaps out, and Maxwell is flinching back as if Patrick lashed out at him. “Look, I told you it was fine, and I really don’t want to talk about it, so could we just… move on?” The words are a band aid slapped onto a fresh cut, and the silence that follows suffocates.

Patrick frowns down at the table, chin digging into the fur of his coat.

“I’m sorry if I was…” It’s Maxwell’s voice ringing into the air. Something soft and confused that drops before he actually apologizes for being the persistently nosy brat he’s always been. Always trying to know everything and baby everyone even when they don’t need it.

“It’s fine.” It’s not, but Patrick isn’t sure if he cares enough for it to matter. He gives a sigh, the silence digging into their skin as the other two wait for something, anything. He doesn’t know what. 

The coat feels tight and constricting, heavy under the waiting stares, and it’s easier to take off the layer than give in and speak. Patrick flaunts the wound as he picks at his clasps, and he waits for the inevitable.

“Are you-“

“When did you get that necklace?” Aiden is in a rush, the words slam down onto the table and shatter whatever Maxwell was beginning to say.

Patrick freezes for a split second before all the weight vanishes, and he’s left floating, “Ah. I found it in some antique shop. They were selling it cheap.” His fingers go to touch the golden skull dangling around his neck. Polishing the shining surface that has scatterings of his reflection dancing in the contours. 

“It’s kind of creepy. Even if it was cheap, why would you buy that?” Aiden squints, dragging his face closer to get a better look at the tiny object.

“It just- spoke to me, I guess? I just looked at it, and I could see myself reflected back.” Patrick lifts it off his chest, bringing it closer to Aiden’s speculative face.

“Are you still going through that midlife crisis shit? It really doesn’t fit you.” Aiden’s leaning back, cradling his beer close as he takes long gulps from it.

“That-“ Maxwell snarls at Aiden before shaking his head and looking at Patrick, “It’s lovely. Ignore Aiden, he’s drunk. You know how he gets.”

Patrick isn’t sure he _does_ know how Aiden gets. He knows how drunk people get though; he has enough memories of drunkards to last lifetimes. People get honest when they drink; their real character and thoughts creeping out into the open. It’s not really _his_ thought, though. It’s never crossed his mind before until he was staring at Aiden with his blushing cheeks and rash words.

“It’s…” Fine, he wants to say. The word chokes in his throat, and he’s forced to swallow it down. 

“I’m just saying, just because Elaine died doesn’t mean you have to change yourself-“

The world drops beneath Patrick’s feet, and he’s left dangling, suspended in the air as gravity tries to drag him back down. It’s like a string is attached, tied around his heart, and carrying his entire body weight against the pull of gravity.

It hurts.

Part of him thinks, _oh, that was her name_. He sees brown hair when it should be red. He sees a smile that he doesn’t really envision. She’s got Maxwell’s eyes. He remembers that. It doesn't seem to fit.

“I- I think I should go.” The beer is untouched, still sitting near him, and his coat only has the latches undone. It would be so easy to just stand up and leave.

To leave and, the itch crawls against his skin like ants, not return. To go somewhere that isn’t here, that isn’t this _town_. Somewhere far away, far away from people. Far away from Aiden and Maxwell and fucking _Elaine_. Dead Elaine with the white funeral and the white flowers dotting the mound of dirt that hid her decomposing corpse. Away from his bankrupt bakery that was a fantasy for the both of them that he just _had_ to live out.

Maxwell is silent, his face ashen, and Patrick thinks he deserves it. He deserves it because he _wasn’t there_ and that was his _sister_. He wasn’t there for his _sister_.

He was dying instead. Somewhere else. That’s what Patrick needs to remember. He does remember, but it doesn’t stick. It should because he _knows,_ but at the same time-

Maxwell wasn’t there for his _sister_. He never said goodbye. He never comforted her when she took her last breath. He just _wasn’t there_.

Aiden watches, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find something to say. Something to follow up, but it’s _impossible_. Patrick doesn’t think there are even words to offer.

“I didn’t mean that. I’ve…” Aiden drops his glass down on the table, pushing it further from himself. “I’ve drank too much. You guys should just ignore me.”

“It’s….” Not fine. Nothing about it is okay. Aiden’s words are like a sucker punch. Something that shatters everything Patrick has worked so hard to ignore. It’s like waking up from a dream and realizing the worst parts of that fantasy are _real_.

He’s done so well at forgetting.

At dreaming.

“It actually- it might be better-“ Maxwell’s voice breaks, and he looks just as broken with his mouth curling in an unnatural shape and his cheeks more white than their usual tan. Maxwell swallows before he continues, “It might be better if we leave for the night. It’s getting late.”

Really the night had just begun.

“No, no. We rarely get together as it is. Especially after-“ Aiden reaches out, eyes wide and desperate, and everything is just falling apart.

Abruptly and horrifyingly. 

Secrets being revealed from the cracks of fractured conversation. Patrick thinks, for a second, that maybe if he moves, blood will smear.

There’s no blood, but there should be. Aiden’s drunken words cut into barely healed wounds like a rusty knife that he carelessly twists deeper into the injury.

“Patrick just got here.” It’s Aiden’s last ditch effort of keeping everything together with his wide gold eyes.

“I…” Patrick gives a glance at the untouched beer, and his stomach revolts. The thought of even drinking, of being even a semblance of _honest_ , is repulsive. “There’s something at the bakery I need to deal with actually. I stopped to come here, but…”

The lie drowns any complaints the others had. Aiden cowers in his seat as Maxwell picks at his fingers.

“That’s- We can try again next week? Maybe everything will be calmer and… better. And you can tell us about the CME?” Maxwell’s smile looks painful, and he’s watching both Aiden and Patrick with such pitying eyes. 

“Yeah, of course. Next week. Same time? Or, me and Brianna could host a cookout sooner? You guys haven’t visited since…” Aiden licks his lips, ducking his head down and letting the rest of his words be smothered in his turtleneck. 

No one says why they haven’t visited, the reason palpable as soon as someone thinks about it. Aiden was there, of course he was. He also wasn’t alone.

Patrick was alone.

“Maybe.” Maxwell is the one who answers, which Patrick is thankful for. He isn’t sure he could even respond without the bitterness churning in his stomach spewing out.

“I’ll see you guys-“ Patrick is already getting up, forcing a smile on his lips that he is sure is spread too thin. Maxwell jolts in his seat,

“We could always walk out-“

“I’d rather be by myself.” The words are harsh, a violent wall being slammed between the two of them that Patrick instantly regrets. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just, I need some fresh air. Alone.” Away from you, and the memory of Elaine and this place. It goes unsaid, but he can feel it, dancing on the tip of his tongue and just waiting to float free in the air.

It’s not even that; it’s not even _Elaine_ and _Maxwell_ , and Godling damned _Aiden_. It’s not even the bills and the rotting bakery and the shitty cottage that was bought for two. It’s the fact that Patrick went out a month ago to get away and he stared at a lake, and he actually thought,

He thought of cinder blocks and chains and walking straight into the depths and never returning. He wakes up, and he lies in bed, and he can’t do anything. It’s the fact that sometimes breathing seems like the hardest thing he has ever done, and he’s tired.

He’s exhausted, and he wants away. He wants…. Something that wasn’t this.

That wasn’t this life. This awful, horrible existence where he was some boring human that’d die at the slightest hint of magic in his system. Watching someone die from it was…

Awful.

Surviving it must be worse.

Maxwell sits back down, a defeated slump to his shoulder, but he relents, “Okay. But, next week, okay? Next week.”

“Next week.” It’s the worst lie Patrick’s ever told, but Maxwell nods anyways.

Outside of the bar it’s cold. The winds picked up and winter starves for its victims. Ruthless in how the snow drags down on your clothing and vicious in how the wind tries to rip you apart. Patrick fumbles with the latches of his coat as the cold nips at his fingers.

He hates the cold. Always has, he doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t. Which is a lie, he remembers being outside of a house and building a snowman and laughing, but that wasn’t _him_. That was someone else, somewhere else. That was someone who had everything put together and no worries.

Snow clings on like someone dying that was afraid of death.

Like someone standing in two feet of water too scared to take another step.

He’s not going to the bakery, the bakery was the other direction. A left instead of a right. The bakery was towards the darkened side of town with all the houses tucked away for a good night sleep. There’s still light where he’s going. Little shops yawning, but still awake just in case someone came in.

The poor person's way of life. Always waiting for something, for money or a person to just walk in and set everything right.

He’s not going to be that person but-

The thought, the idea tickling his head, makes sense as he stares at the small shop sitting in the corner between two dying monopolies. It’s a broken down store, with creaking wooden columns out front to hold the caving in ceiling. Usually, he’d ignore it, but the idea is there.

The idea is there and perched in the windows are maps and travel guides.

It’s so much more tantalizing when he can see the way. When he can hold directions and the idea in his very hands. When the idea of away actually has a name like NorDale or Qleehl. Qleehl specifically, he remembers the tales. The stories. The myths.

It’s where the Godlings originated from. Where everything started until things soured and the wars began. No one goes there anymore, no one even touches it or looks at it. It’s somewhere where you can just go and never return.

It’s like the lake.

The door is already open when Patrick enters. The wind whistles in and rustles the piles and piles of newspapers. It’s empty for the most part, lit by a few candles and a lantern by the inside of the door. There’s a girl at the counter, some teenager leaned over and flipping through a magazine or book. 

Across from the girl is a wall dressed up in maps with pictures nailed into specific locations. There’s a short bookshelf with all sorts of magazines splayed about. When Patrick takes a step closer, he can see illustrations splashed along the covers of most of them, some staying true with the black and white photography to portray the locations the magazine talked about.

It’s the third step that catches him, the floor creaking with protest and announcing the heavy weight being placed upon it. The teenager’s head whips up, and she’s calls out, “Hey, could I help you with something?” She doesn’t even bother to move, just closes the magazine she was reading with a flip of her hand.

“Oh, I was…” Patrick gave a glance back at the wall of maps. “I was just looking.”

“Looking for what? I can tell you if we sell it or not.” She watches him with unblinking eyes, her hair pulled up in a messy bun that left some hair to fall loose when she goes to tilt her head to the side.

“Traveling. I was thinking of traveling and,” Patrick gestures to the wall, forcing a smile as he creeps ever closer to the wall and-

He can see into one the aisles, and there’s this child. This small thing curled up on the floor with newspapers strewn about, and they have this face. This sunken in face that makes Patrick remember something, _someone_. Someone terrifying, but not and they look so _familiar._

The child is just sitting there, flipping through one of the newspapers without even registering anything else, and Patrick just stares. Gawks as he tries to figure out why he can feel the itch growing worse. Why he can feel his lungs constricting because he _can’t remember_. There’s just-

Something is wrong. Something is horribly wrong, and he doesn’t know and-

“Are you planning on buying something?” The voice is right behind him, loud and shocking, and Patrick startles. The floor creaks in protest as he turns around to address the girl,

“I-“

“Look, if you aren’t buying anything, I really don’t have time to deal with loiterers so…” The girl makes a quick gesture to the open door. 

“I’m not-“ The words fall flat because he never intended to buy. He was going to look and if he saw something, saw the answer, he was going to steal. He didn’t have the funds for anything else. Not the funds to be able to spend it on some stupid piece of paper that gave him a possibility.

You don’t need the piece of paper for some of those possibilities, after all. The Qleehl Mountains were the most obvious one, the mountains ranged high and tall. A landmark you couldn’t even miss from the town.

He gives a glance backwards to the child surrounded by paper. A kid who had looked up, dead eyes watching their interaction for a second before they twisted around to pick up another newspaper. “What about-“

“He’s a paying customer. Something you don’t seem to be.” The girl is snappish, arms crossing in front of her. There’s a name tag near her collarbone, Sanvi written in fancy lettering, and a silver paperclip keeping the piece of paper attached to her shirt.

“You didn’t give me the chance to even look.” He snaps back without even thinking. He shouldn’t be. Really, he should just leave. He can feel the hair rising on the back of his neck, and the face still haunts him. Something so familiar but alien. A memory just tucked away, too far out of reach.

Patrick gives another glance towards the wall just as the girl says, “You said yourself that you were just looking and then said you were _thinking_ of traveling. I’m closing soon, so…” Sanvi waves her hand at him, chest puffed up, and chin held high as if daring him to argue.

He doesn’t. One last glance at the wall of possibilities and then he’s leaving. It doesn’t matter anyways; if he was going to leave, it’d be easy. Somewhere far away from other people. Somewhere where it won’t matter that all his dreams crumbled to his feet. Somewhere-

Somewhere where he can’t remember things he shouldn’t. Where he doesn’t remember stories being told about places he’s never been. Somewhere where it is impossible to get lost.

Somewhere where every lake is frozen; the ice so thick that concrete blocks couldn’t break the ice no matter how heavy the blocks were.

Somewhere where the faces he recognize don’t actually exist.

He’s passing by the bar again, going back to the dark streets that lead to home and the desolate bakery. The bar is still the same bright, lively place as before, people leaving and entering, laughing, and living. The window has the perfect view of the table he had sat at. One of the beers were even still on the table, the seats empty.

Maxwell and Aiden were gone. Of course they were. Aiden had Brianna to go home, and Maxwell had his lovely little house in the countryside to return to. Even if that wasn’t the case, everything was frosty when he left, and Aiden was never one to drink alone.

“Are you okay?” A voice rings out, startling Patrick out of his musings. He searches out the owner of the sound, coming across a girl with burning hair and smokey skin with a mole at the corner of her eye. Her eyes were this horrible emerald color. Something so bright and painful, and he can’t help but think of _home_ when he first sees them.

He hasn’t thought of _that_ home in so long, it’s a wonder he even remembers it.

“Ah, yeah. Yes.” He coughs, a cloud of grey air exploding from his mouth as he stumbles over his words, “I’m fine.”

 _It’s fine_. The words are another lie, just with different letters. His hand burns with the thought of the broken mirror displaying every single secret he has. He shoves his hand further into his pocket, forcing a smile towards the girl.

“If you’re sure…” She’s skeptical, her green, green eyes squinting up at him as if she could detect a lie from merely looking. Patrick just forces his grin bigger, hoping against hope that he seems like the happy person he’s _supposed_ to be. That his pretending works and the cracks are hidden from sight.

It must work; a killer smile graces her lips and the glint in her eye takes on a positively mischievous appearance. “By the way, I’m Miranda.”

She throws out her hand as if it’s an attack. Every movement aggressive and wild. Something that screams danger and predator. Patrick in-kind freezes, his eyes widen at the possibilities and the thoughts and the plans and-

Everything just clicks in place.

“Patrick.” He takes her hand, and the exchange stays short. Her thumb touches his torn flesh for a split second, and Patrick wonders if this is a bad idea. Wonders if this is like dropping blood in a shark tank.

“Well, Patrick, would you care for a drink?” The words are a snare, something lethal and unknown. She still has this menacing grin on her face, something that promises danger.

It’s a temptation, a possibility that Patrick could never resist. The thoughts of returning to a table covered in bills and a frozen room and a broken mirror are a nightmare. His own personal fantasy that he could delay and avoid. Something inevitable that could suddenly turn into something that he doesn’t even need to go to. A dream he never needs to have.

Just the thought, the possibility, and Patrick is snared. “I’d love to.”

Miranda grins like a fox that just caught her favorite meal. 


	6. Lost Souls

**_Erica, January 2nd_ **

**_I hope you are doing well. I know it’s been a while since you’ve heard from me. There haven’t been that many postal offices between NorDale and Demsen. I’m not even sure there is a postal in Demsen. It’s such a small town, more like two crossroads that have buildings attached to it._ **

**_You’d probably like it. You always liked the small towns for whatever reason. Yes, yes, I know. You hate the noise, the people, blah blah. You know, I jest. Just as I know, you’d never truly leave Avelton. You got the shop to run, don’t you? Given, I hope you aren’t running it now. You are simply not in shape to do any such blacksmithing, and I don’t care what you say about it. Maybe in a year from now._ **

**_Mihr thinks we’ll be done in a week or so. Optimistic of him since we’ve been working on this for four months. But whatever, as soon as it’s finished I’ll be going home for the weekend. We can start on the baby’s room. I know you don’t want to jinx it, but I refuse to let you do everything by yourself. There’s two of us, and I will be doing my best to pull my weight, so that means we’ll be getting everything ready early._ **

**_I’m hoping for a boy still, so maybe we can keep all the colors on the blue scale? Something light and happy. Like the ocean. After everything, I’m going to steal you away, you know. Me, you and our little angel will be taking a nice vacation out by the ocean so you can see the beauty. Nothing beats watching the sunrise over the sea. Absolutely stunning._ **

**_With lots of love,_ **

**_Yours._ **

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Malakai taps the pen against the piece of paper, trying to think if there is anything else to say. Sure, there’s a lot that he isn’t saying, but there is only so much he can say to begin with. For the past hour, there’s been magic creeping into the air, a sour but sweet taste that hangs heavy on the tongue.

It doesn’t bode well for the tiny town.

Mihr is nowhere to be found, having vanished the second they got to the room. Probably the only reason Malakai was able to taste the magic tainting the air with a splash of sour sweetness. If Mihr was there, it’d be a dark cloud of rot smothering everything in the room. Honestly, it was a wonder Malakai was even able to work with the man.

He folds up the letter and presses it next to the other two letters he has tucked away in his bag when the door to the hotel room swings open. Malakai doesn’t even wait a second, “Someone died.”

The look Mihr sends him is one of such disgust that it sends a sick kind of thrill zapping up Malakai’s spine. Mihr’s never appreciated Malakai’s talents. Then again, the walking skeleton never seemed to be able to enjoy anything outside of his own skills. Malakai, in-kind, has never been able to appreciate the skill set of a healer turned killer. He finds it a bit too ironic for his own tastes.

To be honest, he finds _Mihr_ to be too much for his tastes. The man smelled heavy of death; his magic tasting like rot and always clouding over his too-small frame of what, by all accounts, should be the body of a child. Everything about the man was unnatural, and it made bile rise to the back of Malakai’s throat whenever the walking skeleton came too close.

Unfortunately, after four months of working together, Malakai has learned how to ignore his own reactions to the foul stench of magic wrapped around Mihr.

“What told you this time? Let me guess, there’s magic in the air? Did I get it in one?” Mihr snaps, voice a low hiss. He juts forward, out of the doorway and further into the tiny hotel room. Probably to grab one of his bags or collect the daggers laid out on the counter. Mihr would know what Malakai meant. It wasn’t the first time Malakai said those words, and depending on how everything goes, it wouldn’t be the last. They’ve been playing cat and mouse with Ghost since they started, but the killer seemed to always move two steps ahead.

They find out where the killer is and then Ghost is gone. He vanishes to some other city and leaves them a cookie crumb trail of magic and corpses to track the killer from one end of the kingdom to the other.

Malakai levels Mihr with a glare, opening his mouth to say _there is magic in the air_ before snapping it shut. Better to just not say anything and leave the silence where it rests. Mihr could be a miserable wretch when he wanted to, and the walking corpse has been in a mood since they arrived in the small town.

Unlike Mihr, Malakai has barely anything to grab. He’s been slowly packing things since he first tasted the familiar magic in the air. They’re late, of course they are, and by the time they reach the source all that will be left is the explosion of magic and whatever victim Ghost left behind. The longer they wait, the more the magic disperses; thoughts lost to the wind that will never be found again. It’s something Malakai does hate about working with Mihr.

Mihr never had a sense of urgency, mostly because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t feel the heavy presence of magic falling in all around him. He’s not the one that can smell it, _taste it_. After all, Malakai is the tracker of the two of them. The hunting hound to Mihr’s hunter.

Mihr was just a hunter that didn’t want a hunting hound.

Mihr’s always the first one to leave. He doesn’t even send a glance Malakai’s way before charging out the doors he just entered; a bag is thrown over his frail shoulders as he exits. It doesn’t take long for Malakai to take the lead, long legs by-passing the much shorter man within a few steps as he forces his way out of the doors leading to the outside. Mihr follows with disgruntled murmuring humming in the air, his magic a never-ending ooze that clogs the oxygen around them.

Ghost’s magic consumes everything, teasing around Mihr’s cloud of death and suffocating Midnight with the sickly sweet taste that fades to a biting sourness. It twists in the air, fresh and panic-filled. It’s an urge to _flee_ that makes Malakai itch like he has ants crawling across his skin. A call to run _away_ and _escape_. It’s something that makes the sour aftertaste linger at the back of his throat. Usually, the magic is calmer, still a chaotic swirl of emotions, but nowhere near as flighty. Not so drenched in fear.

The heavy magic is good for one thing, the heavier it is, the looser it holds its secrets. Secrets about thoughts and misgivings, the purpose driving behind every single use of magic and _that_ is what Malakai needs in order to track someone when their magic vanishes from the air. Those thoughts are how he decides to go to which town or which fork in the road to take. It’s how he decides whether or not the target will be moving or staying, where there might be a trap planned, or if the suspect knows something they shouldn’t. It’s what is going to help him catch the ever so elusive serial killer despite Ghost’s ability to shapeshift into his victims.

The overpowering taste and smell leads Malakai and his wayward hunter into an alleyway covered in snow. It’s dipped in between one of the older bars, loud and crowded with the candle lights flickering in the windows, and a closed-down shop with snow piled around its doors. The alley itself is a dark hole, trash cans littering the sides, and the snow mostly untouched. 

Mihr has his nose curled, chin digging into his fragile chest and shoulders hunched about his neck as he braces against the cruel winds of winter that tore into every obstacle it hit. He’s got this look in his eyes, something dismissive and judging. Something saying _, and what is this supposed to prove?_ The hunter still displeased at their hound and looking for any excuse possible to dismiss it. Malakai can’t help but wish to reject the hunter instead.

Unfortunately, Malakai was never much of a killer. Not a single harmful bone in his body. It didn’t mean that he wants to stand by and watch as nephlims abused the abilities they have and so he found the in-between. He can find the abusers, and whoever he works with can do the killing. He was an indirect killer, but one without bloodied hands. Mihr’s hands drowned in crimson; the healer seemed to make a hobby out of the unsavory task.

“This is it?” Mihr gives a derisive snort, his hand gesturing to the seemingly untouched alley. “It doesn’t even look like it has been touched, let alone be a scene of a murder.”

Mihr defies his words, carefully picking out a path to trek into the dark maw of the alley. Some trust had to be given, after all, Malakai was rarely wrong. Malakai just stood there at the mouth, breathing deeply inwards before letting it go in one heaving exhale. He drags the air, the _magic_ across his tongue, and his eyes close as he focuses. His task was never to deal with the body of the victim; instead, it was to track down the magic and get a sense of direction where the bastard would go next.

A sharp inhale, Malakai forces his thoughts to freeze, to empty out like a tub that just had the drain pulled. He needs to focus, focus _, focus-_

Panic. That’s the first thought, an all-consuming waterfall quickly following in pursuit of the first hint. A face, _someone who shouldn’t be **here**_ , and _why are they here? Why? Why? **Why?**_ There’s hysteria singing the edges, a hint of burnt sour tumbling above the sweet taste as emotions run high. It’s whiplash, panic flooding in to suddenly turn into a sense of hopelessness, and then everything clicks, and there’s hope and happiness for one split second before everything crashes.

It’s the remorse that is the worst, like stepping into quicksand. As soon as Malakai realizes it is there, he can’t get out, and he drowns. _I’m sorry; I’m sorry_ rings around him and drowns out every other thought. It’s gut-wrenching, something stabbing; twisting his insides around with panic breaths and guilty, _I’m sorry’s._

Malakai releases his breath, letting the thoughts and magic flow out of him. He waits a minute in stilted emptiness before he tries to even wrap his head around the seconds that passed like hours in his head. Malakai tries to grasp something other than the consuming thoughts that weren’t his own. The ideas of the killer, the panic that paces back and forth in the alleyway.

That’s what the magic is doing after all. It paces, coming in like ocean waves before pulling back. It’s laced with this crippling fear, hands drenched with blood that never should have been spilled, and a face haunting them when it shouldn’t even exist. It’s-

“We need to call the police.” The voice is a freezing chill, scattering any strings Malakai was able to drag out of the chaotic mess. Mihr is crouched on the ground, staring at something behind the trash cans.

“Found the body?” It’s a stupid question; Mihr was never a fan of involving the police unless it was absolutely necessary. The CME was never one to deal with the crime scenes, leaving that task to those that were not nephlims. Too dangerous they’d say. Too hazardous for humans to chase after the nephlim criminals, but if the victim is human, then the CME has no responsibility. Fear of the body being contaminated is what Malakai always assumed. Instead, the CME would always call in the crime scenes they came across, and as long as there was magic lingering around, they’d get jurisdiction over the actual criminal.

Mihr looks up, his eyes a pale abyss as he opens his mouth before snapping it shut. He doesn’t even need to give voice to the words lingering the air for Malakai to understand that he clearly intends to say, _yes, you dumbass_. Malakai forces his feet forward, deeper into the alley and the panic. His feet embrace untouched snow, messing up the perfectly neat trail Mihr left with his small feet.

At first glance, everything is untouched. There’s fresh snow covering the body, and moonlight offers little light to distinguish anything amongst the pale shadows. A dark stain bled from the victim, tainting the once pure snow to a crimson black that trailed from the victim’s neck. Her hair blends in, mixing with the dark red and spiraling onto the wall she was leaning on. 

“It’s a clean-cut, nicked both her arteries. No signs of struggle, and it looks like this is the place where he committed the crime. No signs of the body being moved.” Mihr nudges the girl’s head, so it tilts in the other direction. He doesn’t even hesitate before he presses two slender finger to the frozen blood blossomed across her smoke colored neck. “His usual kill. Just earlier than we expected.”

 _Earlier than expected_ , wasn’t that the biggest understatement of everything. Usually, Ghost would wait months before making a kill. He’s had three in the last two months. Well, two confirmed and one suspected. A massive burst of magic by the foot of a lake, but no body to be found. His magic had been calm and soothing then, as if whispering _that everything was going to be okay,_ and _you won’t be alone._ The first kill was across the kingdom, a good three-week journey if you didn’t make any stops.

Malakai bites his tongue, eyes darting to the side of the alley where the magic still oozed out, heavy with emotions and exposing every thought Ghost had. The magic smothers everything with panic, a knowledge that something, _someone_ , was here who shouldn’t be. The urge to flee feels like your skin is getting peeled off, and you are just trying to get away from the pain. “He knew we were here.”

Mihr gives a snort, “Not like we were subtle. You have a giant neon sign on your head saying you’re with the CME. Tell me something I couldn’t figure out on my own.” He’s got this sardonic smile spreading across his too sharp face as he forces his tiny frame up into a standing position. Malakai can’t really argue with the words, he’s got the military build with the essence of magic seeped into his skin that was donned with the CME uniform. Malakai was never one to go for subtle.

Mihr, well, he was always subtle. He was the frail broken child that no one would suspect of doing the heinous acts he does on the daily. He’s the starving stranger in oversized clothing and a decaying face. Mihr was the one that looked like he was a knock away from death’s door. He got called Death though, that was the name most know him by if it’s by rumor. Death, the one who stands outside the door to the realm of the Godlings and drags people in. It was a name that fit him better than his own skin.

Malakai closes his eyes, lets his mind drift away from the broken body on the ground and rot from the CME’s own personal grim reaper. He goes back to the sweet magic with the sour aftertaste. The magic that curls into his grasp just as much as it flees from it and parades its secrets in front of anyone who would listen. Malakai was always one of the rare few that would always listen.

He coaxes it with silence, an open ear awaiting for the panic-filled words to dribble in again. It’s the faces first, or the face that _wasn’t supposed to be there_. That shock of fear that got drowned by the need to plan and run. Thoughts whirling too fast for the magic to carry and then guilt that feels like a punch to the gut. The _I’m sorry_ , and _It’ll get better, I promise, **I promise**._

It’s the pleas of a broken man, and then the horror of _why won’t it stop, I don’t want to- **I don’t want to­-**_

A victim’s haunting wails echoing in the sour aftertaste, dragging the flavor into burning panic. Cries that bring change and make everything stop into this stilted silence as the magic withers away in frigid air. Nothing else follows, and Malakai is forced to backtrack. To look behind every thought and feeling because there had to be something. Anything.

The sour taste bites into Malakai’s flesh, dragging him deeper into the depths of panic, and then he finds it. It’s a small sliver, a backlash of fear and fleeing and then _mountains_ and _away_ sink in like bricks in a roaring river. _Mountains,_ it's the only word offered to him before the magic dips back into the panic-filled symphony it sung previously.

The word is enough, there’s really only one mountain range near Demsen and that, as insane as the idea was, is, “The Qleehl Mountains.”

“What.” Mihr drops the frigid smile; instead, the thin lips take on a frown with furrowed brows digging into shadowed eyes.

“That’s where he went. To the Qleehl Mountains.”

Mihr offers a squint, pessimism visible, but he holds his tongue. Offers a shrug and says, “If that’s true, then this case is closed. He’ll die out there, and my job is done.” The _unless you are wrong_ goes unsaid, but rings in the skeptical tone just as clearly as words in the air would.

“I’m not wrong.” Malakai doesn’t think he is, but he doesn’t _know_. There’s no guarantee that he’s correct. Nothing proving the strewn together words and his assumption are accurate. All he’s got is the one word to go off of; for all he knows, that could have been a passing thought that the magic decided to latch onto. He could be heading back east to NorDale.

Magic isn’t supposed to work like that, of course. It’s supposed to drag out the emotions that ring the loudest. The most honest thoughts, the ones that magic scrapes across as it escapes out of its host. So, he should be right. _Mountains_ should be pointing to the Qleehl Mountains, and the urge to flee should signal him leaving Demsen. Logic says that no matter how insane the idea, Ghost was heading towards the mountains of the dead.

“But what if he doesn’t die?” What if they stop looking for Ghost; count him as dead even, and the killer wasn’t dead. What if he started killing again? It would be chaos.

“Then we’ll deal with it later.” Mihr’s eyes flicker towards the body, “Even if he doesn’t die, we’d be waiting for him to come back. _If_ he comes back. He could just vanish and never return. The wastelands span over thousands of miles after all. It’d be like a needle in a haystack.”

“We can’t just-“Malakai sputters, body jarred into movement as his mind sticks to the buzz of magic roaring around him. “We can’t just leave it alone. That’s hoping we catch wind of him again if he shows up. We’d be leaving people vulnerable. If we just-“

“Just what? Follow your suspicion and then end up dying ourselves?” A cold laugh follows the words, and Mihr is merciless as he continues, “Everyone dies there, and I for one will not become another corpse to add to the body count.”

“You already are a corpse.” The words are out without any previous thought. A stampede that explodes out into the open air and leaves it sourer than the magic still raining down upon them. The stilted posture fractures into pieces as Mihr whirls around to send a glare at Malakai.

It’s amazing what a few words of honest reality does to a man who does nothing but hide from it. Malakai has seen the skeleton spend an hour painting his face to the point where the hollowed decay disappears from view. Mihr is like a disgruntled cat, bristling at an invader with a muted kind of spitefulness sparking his pale eyes.

Mihr works his mouth open for a second before he goes back to staring at the victim, a thin coat of snow hiding away the monstrosity of her death. Then in the coldest voice he says,

“Call the police. We can look into some of the farms, see if anything is missing. He isn’t going to walk across the wastelands if he is heading that way.” The words are sickeningly sweet, clinging onto Malakai’s taste buds as his mind takes in the terms. It sounds like Malakai won, like Mihr accepts that they need to follow Ghost. It’s a trap is what it is. A warning that there are specific topics not to be breached.

Mihr’s reaches over with his pale, delicate fingers, eyes slanting in Malakai’s direction as a threat of the consequences that not abiding by the warning, the _trap,_ would cause. Malakai flinches back from the frail outstretched hand. Mihr has his fingers curled, not fully stretched out and reaching, but still a warning. Rot wafts up into the air as Mihr just lets his hand hang. The threat serves as a reminder that Mihr was the one that held power in their partnership. Mihr was the one with magic that could bring someone to death’s door just as soon as he could rescue someone from their own doomsday.

Malakai obeys, skittering off to the mouth of the alley before fishing out his phone. Not something he’s used to using, the east was too bogged down with magic to make use of frequency waves, but the west was usually kept free of the disease. Instead, they didn’t get the easy access to the inventions the east made, such as electricity. Give or take. One or the other. Nephlim or human.

“Police Department of Demsen, what’s your emergency?” The woman on the other side of the line sounds bored, static chopping up a few of her words and giving it a robotic ring. She’s probably counting the hours until her shift ends, and Malakai is mere seconds away from demolishing any sense of normalcy she has.

“I’m reporting a homicide in the alley between Dangerous Drink and Hagins on Satchin Street.”

At this point, if he was Mihr, Malakai would have just hung up the phone rather than listen to the girl stutter out, “Wha- A homicide? How do you- the alleyway between Dangerous Drink and… Hagins? Did you see the murder?”

“I’m with the CME and am currently in pursuit of the killer. I need a patrol to be sent out to the crime scene to record and report the crime so that the CME can add it to their files.” The words are calm, controlled. Something laid out nicely with no room for argument.

“With the CME?” Her voice shakes with the static, “A patrol has been sent out, they should arrive within the next ten minutes. Is there-“Malakai shuts the phone with a click, silence snapping into the desolate alley. Mihr steps behind Malakai, his back hunching into the oversized coat that drapes across his form.

They stand there, muted and greyed out before, “No one is going to be awake at this hour. We’ll have to wait for the morning hours to see if anyone stole a horse or got a late-night customer.” The words are tossed out offhandedly, Mihr doesn’t even bother to look up from the snow-filled darkness in front of them. The suggestion makes Malakai’s skin crawl, the sweet-sour magic clings to his skin, but it is vanishing with each passing second. Come morning, it could just be an echo, spread thin across the street and indistinguishable amongst the other traces of magic that cling to the air.

“If we wait ’til the morning, the magic will be gone. We won’t be able to track him as easily. It’ll be a hit or miss, and the wind could carry it miles off.” Malakai releases the words with a defensive huff, a dwindling hope that vanishes as soon as Mihr shrugs his fragile shoulders.

“I don’t need you to find Ghost.” It’s a blatant lie. The only reason Mihr has come as close to finding the elusive shapeshifter as he has was because of Malakai. The man can’t try to hunt someone down who changes their appearance on a dime and seems to make random kills and moves in mysterious ways. There’s a pattern, more in the killer’s magic than in the kills themselves or in the actions, but there is a pattern. Albeit a small one.

“We wait until morning, and we aren’t going to find him. Even if you can pull off some impossible detective skills. He’s going through the wastelands during winter, snowfall is going to cover up any tracks he makes. And,” Malakai takes a deep breath before continuing, “there is no clear cut trail to the Qleehl Mountains to begin with. Following his magic is going to be our only way to track him.”

“If he is going to the mountains, I will not be following him. All that needs to be done is reporting it to the CME and moving on with our lives. If something pops up in one of the neighboring towns that seems like it could be Ghost, they’ll send someone to check it out. But, most likely, the man will be dead. He’s doing my job for me, and I have other things I need to do. We will check the stables in the morning.” Mihr clicks his tongue as if he could end the conversation with the single sharp sound.

Malakai bites his tongue, copper blends in with the sourness coating the back of his throat. He fights the urge to argue because it would get him nowhere. It never gets him anywhere; once Mihr makes up his mind on something, the man stuck to it as if he were glue. It’s like Malakai is still trying to prove his worth as a hound to the hunter, and Mihr refuses to acknowledge any successes and only points out the failures. Only points out the _oh, looks like Ghost went to another city and not **this** one._

“We can’t stop just because he’s gone off the grid. That’s-“ Malakai loses the battle, the words fall out of his mouth even though he knows it’s a lost cause. “What if he’s only going in the direction of the Qleehl Mountains, using the wastelands to cut to Heisenworth or one of the other cities up north without hitting any of the smaller towns?” The defeat tastes like the magic hanging in the air, overly sour as the words slip out.

“It isn’t my problem. We will check the stables in the morning.” There’s a bite now, a threat lingering underneath the words even if Mihr is still staring fixedly at the end of the road. The argument is a loss; Malakai reluctantly drops it and shifts further away from the tiny, broken frame that was engulfed in ragged clothing.

It’s not long before headlights flicker through the darkness as one of the older cars crept up the road. Mihr shifts further into the shadows, tilting his body so that his back is facing the nearby wall and his eyes watching as the car pulls to a spluttering stop near them. Malakai heaves himself up to his full height, chin jutting forward and a frown tight on his lips. If Mihr was going to continue his refusal of dealing with the police, then Malakai was going to have to keep them from getting distracted by the skeleton huddled next to the wall.

It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last; unless Mihr actually does tell the CME that Ghost is dead. Even the thought sends a sickening lurch in Malakai’s stomach. To let a serial killer run loose just because it might be dangerous to follow them was unimaginable.

The men who exit the vehicle are whispering, one giving a yawn while the other stares at Malakai as if he was a monster veiled in human flesh. They ignore Mihr, striding up to Malakai with dark frowns. The taller of the two snaps out, “Where’s the body?”

“Over there.” Malakai moves a step back, and a sweeping motion of his arm in the direction of the trash cans and the victim’s body. The shorter man makes a halting step forward, eyes flickering around the scene. He makes a soft humming noise that freezes as he creeps steadily closer to the travesty.

Mihr sits back, looming like the reaper waiting to strike. Not a single eye flickers his way, but Malakai can still taste the rotting nervousness wafting off the man. He at least had the decency to wait until the shorter man is crouched by the corpse and inspecting it before he chimes in, “We need to leave-“

“What did this?” It’s the taller one, his eyes skid right past Mihr and land on Malakai. It makes sense, Malakai seems like the dangerous one of the two. Those that don’t keep track of the going ons of the CME would never even think of Mihr being hazardous. His hiding just makes the belief of innocence and harmlessness that much more believable.

“It’s-“There’s still a copper taste in Malakai’s mouth, which is the only thing that stopped him from biting onto his tongue as he forced the words to halt. “This will be going under Ghost.” Whether or not they know what he means by that doesn’t matter. As long as it’s marked as Ghost, it’ll make its way to the CME. Another name for another criminal.

“Ghost? What-“The shorter one stops, eyes wide as he looks up at Malakai. The magic pulses in the air, more thoughts tickle the edges of Malakai’s mind that he has to swat away.

“What are we going to be telling everyone else?” The taller one is talking again, voice sharp. It’s a good question, saying that there is a nephlim killer on the loose is the best way to get a town into a frenzy. Especially in the west were nephlims are more ostracized.

“Newspapers like to sing songs about unfortunate incidents happening in dark alleys. Like a mugging gone wrong.” Mihr’s voice is soft, a quiet whisper into the air. He’s stepping forward, the ooze of his magic pushing up and around Malakai with his movements.

“That’s-“ _actually a good idea_ , Malakai assumes the taller policeman would have said if not for Mihr snapping out,

“We need to leave, though.” Mihr gives this smile, a jagged little thing that belies his helplessness. Malakai forces out a nod, offering,

“I would keep an eye out for anything that was stolen through the night, or if anyone else suddenly vanished. If something does come up, contact the CME to let us know.”

They don’t even try to put up a fight, giving in to the inevitable with lost eyes and a frozen body at their feet. Mihr’s the one who leads the way; he doesn’t even spare the two a glance.

Malakai isn’t so heartless, he stares at them. Watches as the two shuffle around the body and as they talk with their frozen breath dispersing in the air. He can imagine the thoughts, the worry as they touch a body that was killed by a nephlim. They’ll probably go home and pray to the Godlings that they didn’t interact with enough magic to catch it.

They’ll probably pray for a leech to come this way and cure them if they did catch the disease.

Leaving is something of a gift for the policemen, and for Malakai and Mihr. Less exposure, less communication. Pass the needed word and move on. The police would then cover up the homicide and keep everything calm as the CME did its job.

The silence between them stretches thin as they walk away. Thoughts whirl, words buzzing at the tip of Malakai’s tongue and he wants to speak. To argue, to demand things that aren’t his to demand. The copper burns as he swallows, the sour taste still clinging as a reminder of what’s there. Of what the next step is, what it should be.

There's a sweet, sweet kind of magic with just the tiniest bit of sourness to it dangling in the air. It drowns out the remains of the last bout. The old batch. This was new. Fresh and it prickles. It’s not another death, not sour enough for it and there’s no emotion being carried with the sickly sweet taste. It’s more… innocent. A shift in forms, something natural and smooth.

“He’s been here.” Malakai doesn’t hesitate to spit out the words. Mihr gives him the ugliest look, his glare colder than the outside air.

“We are going to the hotel.” There’s no room for argument.

“We might be able to find him before he leaves.” Malakai presses his luck, feet speeding because he can still taste, feel, _smell_ the sweet magic. It’s been drifting, maybe for miles, but it was there and _new._ It was a chance.

“In the morning-“ Mihr begins but Malakai stops listening. It doesn’t matter because he’s going to go for it. He’s… Ghost is within reach. He’s right there, his magic dangling a carrot, and all Malakai has to do is reach out and grab it.

“Look, we can just follow it. Stay on the outskirts? We have everything we need. There’s no need to go back. Just, let’s just follow the trail. If he goes towards the wastelands we can stop. I won’t even say anything.” Malakai stops, he watches as Mihr mentally battles himself to just abandon him before the walking skeleton stops.

Mihr gives a sigh, hand going to pinch the bridge of his nose, “We’ll look. But as soon as he goes into the wastelands I’m going to head straight back to the capitol.” It’s not much but it tastes even sweeter than the magic lingering in the air.

“We’ll need to grab the horses if we are following.” The look Mihr sends Malakai says everything. _No shit, dumbass._ Thankfully, Mihr doesn’t feel the urge to say the words. Instead, he gave a small snort and then says,

“Wouldn’t it be ironic if he stole one of our horses?”

In the end, Ghost had not stolen one of their horses. The walk made Malakai lose track of the magic, but he still had an idea where it was coming from so he had hope that he could find it again. As long as he could find it, he could locate Ghost.

Mihr looks up at the horses as if they’re some kind of monster. His small frame dwarfed against the beasts. He always acts like a skittish cat whenever it came to them. He’d circle, step closer and then skitter back the second they moved. One would think he’d have gotten better after riding horseback for so long. He hasn’t.

“I promise she isn’t going to bite you.” Malakai couldn’t resist letting the words fly into the air. Mihr dutifully ignores him as he decides to brace himself, small chest puffing up and then he’s hurtling himself up and over the saddle in a choppy motion.

Malakai swings into the saddle, pulling himself up high and then, “Let’s go, we have a ghost to hunt.”

Mihr stays a dark cloud of rot, but squares his shoulders anyways. There’s a small kick, and they’re off. A slow trot, nothing too quick since Malakai has to take notice of every scent or taste in the air. Anything that could pinpoint the next location and-

He finds it. This little aftertaste, but undoubtedly the sweetness of Ghost’s magic. It’s rising high in the sky, a barely-there quiver, but he finds it. He tugs at it, drawing it down and lets it flood into his mouth.

The horses go faster. Ripping through the town, passing by the murder in the alley and into freedom. Snow explodes underneath the storming hooves and Mihr slowly falls behind, but Malakai has the taste of magic sticking to the roof of his mouth. He can feel it in his bones that this is the best chance they’ll have. The magic stays parallel to the wastelands and goes right out of town.

There’s a house up ahead, and magic is rich in the air. It lingers, a familiar thought brushing across Malakai’s mind. The words _getting away_ and _Qleehl_ filtering in. The house has a stable in the back, probably missing one horse that they’ll find in the morning. Maybe Malakai will be returning it home in a few hours, and he’d be done with the mission.

After all of this, he was going to go home. He was going to collapse on his couch and hold his wife and not worry about Ghost ever again.

The magic vanishes after a few minutes. The trail too dispersed in the air for Malakai to catch. Suddenly, everything is empty, and there's nothing to go off of outside of the thoughts and direction from before. So he pretends that he could still feel it, _taste it_. Mihr wouldn’t know any better after all.

The house is a mere speck in their shadows when Malakai finds it again. The horses had slowed down to a trot when he catches wind of the magic again. It’s a hint, a tease in the wind, but enough for Malakai to grab onto and hold.

He doesn’t think, digs his heels into his horse with a kick, and he’s off. The scent drags to the left, and he follows like a cat after a mouse. Chasing, chasing, _chasing_ -

And then the smell disperses. Rising high up in the sky and out of reach.

Malakai freezes, jerking the reins back and-

Mihr is nowhere to be found, and the world was a haze of grey and white. The wind sweeps the snow up and acts like a cover of fog.

The air is quiet, tasteless. He reaches for strings and pulls up _nothing._

“Fuck.” The whisper is lost in the wastelands.


	7. Dreaming Reality

**_~~Erica,~~ _ ** ~~~~

**_~~It’s been~~ _ ** ~~~~

**_~~I don’t think-~~ _ ** ~~~~

**_~~Erica,~~ _ ** ~~~~

**_~~You won’t see this. I’d be surprised if you ever saw this. If you ever saw~~ _ ** ~~~~

**_~~Erica,~~ _ ** ~~~~

**_~~It’s cold out in the mountains. Colder than I thought possible. I can’t even write properly without warming up my hands for thirty minutes~~ _ ** ~~~~

**_~~Erica,~~ _ ** ~~~~

**_~~I don’t know what to do. I fucked up.~~ _ ** ~~~~

**_Erica,_ **

**_I love you._ **

**_Forever Yours_ **

———————————————

———————————————

———————————————

The pen keeps slipping out of Malakai’s grasp. His fingers too shaky, the tips too numb. He stopped shivering hours ago, a worrying sign he’s sure. He thinks he read once that, that was a symptom of hypothermia. Wouldn’t that be a shocker, dying from hypothermia after being so certain he’d starve to death.

He ran out of food three days ago. Maybe, it might have been more recent or even later or… he couldn’t tell. The trees consumed any and all light. He gave up hope on keeping track of time as soon as he entered the dead forest. The soft, sweet smell was the only thing keeping him moving. The only reason he kept treading on and on and _on_.

He was going to die though.

He was going to die in a mountain of snow surrounded by this deafening silence and never ending fog. He was going to die and it was all because he just _had_ to follow the Godlings damned killer. He was going to die because he refused to just… let the killer die on their own. He could have just sat back and called it quits with Mihr.

He hadn’t, and now he hasn’t felt his hands or feet in so long that he wouldn’t even be sure they were still attached if it wasn't for the fact that he could _see_ them. His breath fans in front of his face, blending the grays with the whites, and sometimes he’d have to stop and blink. Blink and make sure he can still see his feet. Still see his _hands_.

He abandoned the horse once he hit the woods. The poor thing kept tripping and was sluggish in its movements. He probably should have kept it, it had meat if all else failed. Or…

Malakai blinks, drops the pen that barely worked and cracks his frozen hands against the paper. There’s a fire that flickers just in front of him. It ate away at the dead trees, giving warmth that Malakai could never fully _take_. Part of him debates on dropping the paper in the fire. Dropping all of the paper in the fire just for that flare of heat.

He would do anything for that warmth. To watch his hands melt and watch everything _melt_.

He still isn’t shivering, his hands simply were too stilted; too _frozen_ for anything more than the jerking shake they offer whenever he moves. Frostbite, he’s sure that’s what he had. He’s sure that if he took off the heavy gloves he’d seen blue skin dipped in white icicles. Maybe on his entire hand.

Malakai’s eyes slide shut for a second, the thought of _sleep_ almost too hard to pass up before he forces his eyes open again. He’s not sure why, it doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

He was lost and dead and yeah, there’s a sweet taste lingering in the air, even in these forsaken woods, _but_ he was dead. He was going to die. Be it now, or later or days later if he somehow staves off hypothermia. He’ll die from starvation, or he’ll die from some infection or…

He’d die. Malakai doesn’t know why he’s fighting it.

That’s a lie. He does. He smooths the parchment out one more time before slowly shoving it back into his bag. Back with all of the other letters he won’t be able to send off. Dying when he has other choices was giving up. Giving up on everything else in his life. He was going to die but…

Every time his eyes slide shut he’d be home. He’d be in front of a nice toasty fire with Erica humming away in the basement. He could see a child, boy or girl- it didn’t matter, and they’d be perched on the couch and talking about whatever cool thing happened at school and…

He’d be home and old and free of everything. The world would be safer than it was before, he’d have done his duty to his kingdom and retired from the CME and everything would be peaceful. Maybe there wouldn’t even be horrible people like Ghost in the world. Maybe the CME finally fixed things and it’s peaceful. Maybe the disease that gave people magic was finally cured.

It’s a dream that taunts him every time he’s ready to give up. The thought that maybe some miracle will happen and he will _live_. He’s a dead man walking, but hope just keeps him walking.

As soon as the letter was stuffed into his bag, Malakai lets himself fall back into the snow, staring straight up into the dark abyss of the branches. There’s not even a hint of the sky, not a sliver of blue amongst the drowning blackness.

Sometimes, when he stares long enough he thinks he sees movements. Like things are flying or jumping in the branches. Sometimes he can trick himself into seeing eyes that watch down on him. There’s nothing of course, no form of life in the forsaken mountains. There’s not even a hint of breeze in the air.

Everything is frozen and black. Like frostbite nipped at the forest for so long that there’s not even a vein of life left for it to claim. Every time Malakai lets his eyes shut he wonders if he’s just a new found vein in the forest that the frost is slowly biting into.

He wonders if when he dies he’ll just freeze like everything else. If he won’t even rot and will just become one with everything else in the forest. A frozen, still corpse that will melt into the trees in the centuries to come.

Another blink, too slow and thoughts too sluggish. The branches seem to move, to reach out to him and welcome him. Like Qleehl welcomes her monsters home. Another blink and everything is back to stillness.

His mouth is dry, lips blue and cracked and when he licks them there’s no wetness to offer. He breathes and the air scratches at his throat, rubbing the frozen muscle raw and rattling in his lungs. He waits, letting the icy grip of the mountains touch him before he gives one last painful gasp and shoves himself up.

Snow cascades down his shoulders, getting stuck in the fur lining his coat and sticking to the frozen skin of his face. His hands reach out, clumsily skating through the ice before he touches the small canteen he’d brought. It takes a second, making stiff fingers crack and having them wrap around the smooth metal surface and his other hand jerks too roughly to unscrew the top on the first try.

It’s the third, or fourth try before his fingers actually get a solid grasp on the lid and are able to turn it. As soon as it off it slips, stumbling into the snow and he thinks, wonders if it is even worth it. It’s not. It won’t be.

Stuffing snow in the container is quick, he doubts it’s enough as it clog at the entrance and he can’t manage to get his hands to work enough to force more snow into the tiny bottle. It slides out of his grasp when he tries to bring it closer to the fire. The metal of the bottle doesn’t even make a sound as it sinks into the snow surrounding the fire.

He stares, watches the light of the fire dance across the metal before nudging it closer. He hopes it’ll melt quickly and that there will be more than a few sips. He hopes, but last time he tried there was barely any to be satisfactory. Enough to live, with how frequently he’s been doing it, but not nearly as much as he needs.

So far everything has been enough to _survive_ even if there’s nothing else to be had. Enough food to last the journey. Enough water to not die in the first few days. Enough heat to not cave into hypothermia.

The last one was the one that was going to be the lie. He’d die from the cold before he starved; lately it seems to be getting colder. The forest around him seems to die the longer he’s there. He stopped moving forward once he ran out of food, mostly sticking to the foot of the mountains.

Further up the world turned darker. The world more sinister where even the Godlings feared to trespass.

He’s a block of ice, sitting in front of the slow dying fire. He doesn’t move or fidget, small rasping breaths the only thing giving away his life. He blinks.

He almost prefers the wastelands with its howling winds. Everything moves there, the wind this angry force that forces everything to bend to its will. He’d seen rabbits out there, or at least what he thought were rabbits. Before the forest it seemed hopeful, the taste strong in the wind and the thought of _home_ strong in his heart.

The forest chipped away at everything. A slow start at first, the wind being the first to vanish. Then the trees thickened and the sky followed the wind. Daylight and night mixed and the branches kept reaching and grabbing for him. His horse was the third thing to go, thorns catching on it at every move and the poor thing could barely stand up after falling.

The snow thickened the further in he went, clinging to his boots for every step.

The sweet taste of magic hangs in the air, but it is faint. He could pull and tug at it, but then it would vanish as if it was never there. A never ending tease that he has long since given up on. It lingers, and he lingers and death lingers in the backdrop.

He blinks; snow stays at the mouth of the container and it glistens.

Not a soul moves; the Qleehl tightens its icy grasp on Malakai with every frigid heartbeat.

He blinks.

He closes his eyes, death awaits with a promise of warmth and happiness. A warm home with a busy wife and lovely child with a blue room.

He blinks.

The snow slowly melts. The fire slowly dies.

He blinks.

Each time his eyes close it’s there, this tantalizing thought. It’s a fight to open them once more, to stare at the flickering flames in front of him. It would be so easy, to shut his eyes and not think. To just let go and embrace the afterlife. They always said Death was the tricky one.

Death was the godling no one should trust. The one that promises warmth and safety and peace. The calm one that sat in the back and offered a hand with the sweetest smile. Like a mother’s embrace, some would say. That was Death. A cruel bastard that was more and more tempting every time he lets his eyes close.

Qleehl and Death had an affair once, he thinks. He didn’t remember how the story went, just that it was at the very beginning. Before Qleehl was exiled. Death probably stayed fond of her even after, with how the godling stalked up and down her forests. Given, maybe Qleehl was the one fond of Death.

She was the one with the icy punishing grip after all. Death just waited in the background, biding his time.

He blinks.

Sometimes, he thinks he sees them. Or Death at least. He knows it's a hallucination or dehydration or even the probable _hypothermia_ talking, but sometimes he sees the fabled eight legged godling with the scythe hovering over his shoulder. It’s only for a second, he blinks and then there’s nothing but the bark of trees and the reaching branches.

Death lingers, but often not in sight. He prefers to creep up behind and catch his victims unaware.

Malakai likes to think himself aware. He knows what's coming, can feel it in his bones. The icy grip of Qleehl only reminds him further. He blinks.

The snow drips off of the canteen. The fire flickers. His bones protest any move, grinding against one another and sticking like wet ice.

It’s a hallucination, that he’s sure. There’s a girl, with bleeding hair and she’s drowning in fur. A monster of the abyss, maybe Qleehl herself. The girl hovers, head cocked to the side as if listening to his slowing heartbeat. He blinks.

She remains, standing in the snow as crimson drips all around her. It’s like a death scene, with all the red around her. The white enhances it; the black fur drowns in it.

The stories always said the Death was the monster and that Qleehl was the beauty. Or that she was the beauty before her exile. It’d make sense, if Death was close by that she’d hide her monstrosity to entice the godling. Maybe another war being fought. For what, Malakai would never know.

He blinks.

The girl creeps closer, quiet like the forest around her. She’s a child really, the closer she gets the more Malakai can see. She still has the fat cheeks from childhood, her head more like a bobble head over the tiny body. The fur dwarfed her, making her swim it. Her bleeding hair continues to drip into the snow and taint it.

He blinks and the girl is across from him as she reaches out with small, small hands. Small bare hands. Her hands were pale, tiny. Not frozen, not blue.

He blinks and she’s tugging at his gloves. He lets her, watching, waiting. His blood crawls in his veins, tripping at every shard of ice. His bones screech when he dares to move so he doesn’t. He just sits there as frostbitten skin is shown.

It’s black, his hand. Not blue. Black and muggy looking. It looks like rot, like it’s dying.

He stares at it. Watches the creeping death on his hand and he wonders if that’s everywhere. He hasn’t stopped to look, too scared to even think of it. He knew, he knew it was frostbite, but he was thinking blue with white. Not this ugly black _rot._

He blinks.

She looks up at him, with these wide green eyes. Child eyes, huge in her face and so innocent and naïve. He drags his eyes to stare back. It’s the face of Qleehl, he’s sure. A trick as Death creeps behind. He has one last moment before Death creeps behind him and embraces him. One last breath. One last sight and it’s a child.

Maybe, maybe it isn’t Qleehl, but his own child. Maybe that’s what his child would grow up to be. She’d be beautiful of course, especially if she took after her mother. She’d be the most precious thing in the world. He moves his other hand to cover hers and his rot.

The movement aches, his bones protest and it’s jarring in every sense of the meaning. His brown glove covers her pale, pale hand and-

There’s blood that drips onto the snow. Steam mixing with the fog.

He blinks.

The girl smiles at him, this bright smile and she shatters the deafening silence when she asks, “You won’t hurt me will you?” He tries to open his mouth, to agree that _he’d never_. Not in a million years.

But-

Dying hurts people doesn’t it? She’d be growing up without a father. It’d just be her and Erica and…

The words stick in his throat; never mind that she wasn’t even real to begin with. He blinks, Death drags at his soul with the sweetest of promises.

The girl tugs at his hand, “You won’t right? You won’t let me die?” It’s the oddest question. Everything about the girl, the hallucination was the oddest thing. She wraps both of her hands around his one rotting hand, ignoring the gloved one hovering uselessly overhead.

“I’d…” The words are like sandpaper on his throat, dry and scratching. He feels like blood is dripping down his throat with the one word. He swallows, a copper and sweet taste mixing into each other again before he adds, “never.”

Her smile brightens, “Your life to mine. Blood to blood. We will share wounds and life. To live together and die together. Your magic for my magic.” She speaks softly, nearly mumbling into her chest as she watches their hands and Malakai just….

He blinks.

He blinks and waits for the hallucination to turn to dust. He waits and waits. The fire grows steadily smaller and snow continues to melt into his canteen. The girl continues to sit in front of him. Looking up with big green eyes. He blinks.

She suddenly pulls away, shoving his glove back into his rotten hand. She digs into the fur she drowns in before pulling out a leather satchel and pushing it towards him. “Drink. You’re dehydrated. I can…” She looks around, bleeding hair dripping all over the snow before she spots the fire, “fix that. Warmth is good, right?”

Sweetness drowns the air, no longer a tease, but a promise. He’s tempted to reach for it, but he fears it fading away. He fears the disappointment that follows. He blinks.

“You should drink that.” She’s commanding, for a child. For a hallucination. He wonders, would his child be so demanding? Probably, Erica was quite bossy. He couldn’t see any child of hers _not_ being bossy. He obeys without question, rotten hand dropping the glove to pick up the satchel and bring it to his mouth.

The water is… cold. But soothing, like a balm against wounds. He imagines the flesh knitting itself back as he gulps and gulps and _gulps_.

It’s like it freezes, after healing the open wounds. It freezes and skips the driest part before chilling his innards. “Careful, careful.” The girl is there, her tiny little hand touching his rotting one. She’s got a cut, right across her palm. Blood to mix with the oozing blood on her head. He blinks.

“You’re-“ His voice is a croak and he can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence. He tries to drop the satchel and reach for her hand, but his fingers don’t cooperate. His eyes, it seems, was enough of a clue. She offers that small little smile and says,

“You should worry about yourself before me. I’m not the one dying after all.” She’s correct, of course she is. She’s a figment of his imagination, you can’t die if you never existed to begin with. She watches him with suspicious eyes, as if debating something. He blinks.

She goes by the fire, shifting a glance his way before she vanishes. Malakai sits alone, all by himself in the quiet stillness of the Qleehl mountains. One last vision before death. The comforting embrace of Death closing in and Qleehl’s grip tightening with every heartbeat.

He was going to die.

He blinks.

The fire grows, slowly, steadily. As if being fed by his ever draining life. The snow drips and drips, right into the canteen. Melting, slowly. He blinks, slowly.

She’s back, tiny hands reaching out to him. “Come on, get closer.” She tugs at rotting flesh, hand ghosting over the black taint. “Up, up.” The child is still bossy, demanding the impossible out of him when merging with the snow and ice started to sound inevitable.

She leans back, the black fur consuming her and moving around her like a storm brewing. He blinks and she’s gone. Instead there stood a white haired man with ice as skin and bloody eyes. The black fur draped over his shoulder and-

It’s Death. It had to be Death. The godling of death and bones and poisons. His magic was sour, sweet and sour and he drowned everything around him. He reached out, snow frozen hand to grab at Malakai and drag him closer. Malakai blinks and Death still stands there, severe and sharp.

The vision and then the embrace.

He knew he was going to die.

Malakai closes his eyes, sees that cozy little house and the child sitting on the couch and Erica is curled up next to him and-

He fights to open his eyes again.

The fire is suddenly closer. A huge roaring thing that demands life. It throws out it’s warmth like it’s a net and Malakai can’t help but soak it in. When he looks around, Death is gone. Instead the girl is back, watching with green, green eyes. “Warm up.” She demands, “We’re leaving once you’re warmer.”

It makes no sense. Leaving, makes no sense. He doesn’t know where they would go. Where he could _possibly_ go in the forest of monsters. Nothing moves but the flickering fire; neither of them breathe. Air just freezes to his lungs as if it was water before it rattles free and scrapers across his throat.

He blinks.

“Come closer.” She beckons and his bones melt forward just the tiniest bit. Just a bit closer to the fire before it starts eating into his flesh and clothes. It burns; the closer he gets the more it burns. He can’t tell if it hurts, but it burns. “Not your hands.” She nudges his fingertips away and watches.

They wait.

The snow continues to drip, Malakai doesn’t even know if it snow anymore. The fire continues to grow.

He continues to burn.

She sits close to him, the embrace of Death chasing off some of Qleehl’s grip. She sits close and touches the fire with a stick and they wait. He doesn’t know what they wait for. Doesn’t know if maybe Death decided it wasn’t time yet. Maybe Malakai needed to stop dreaming about the cozy home. Maybe Death wasn’t fond of Qleehl after all.

“Let’s go.” The soft voice sounds like a gunshot. The girl is standing up, brushing off snow from the black sea she drowned in before reaching out her tiny, pale hand again. “Come on, I know somewhere warmer.” Malakai blinks up at her and it’s the end. Maybe there is no warm embrace from death, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

The light being a little girl who very much might have been his if he got to live to see the day. Maybe the end of the tunnel is a home, not the real one; but one he could live happily in. A home that _could have been_ if it weren’t for his stubbornness. A home he could have seen if he hadn’t demanded they follow Ghost to the bitter end.

“Okay.”

The last word he’d ever say scrapes across his tongue, digging into the frozen flesh and tearing as the word escaped into the air. He reaches up with his rotten hand and takes her tiny hand in his. Broken knees lift him up, forcing his body to move forward and he follows.

The fire burns behind them, the dying embers bidding them goodbye as they went deeper into the Qleehl.

The trees welcomed them, darkness swallowing them up as the branches reached and tugged at the fur wrapped around their bodies. The girl was stubborn, tugging at Malakai every time he paused. Breaking the suffocating silence to tell him to _hurry_ _hurry_.

The tunnel had monsters after all. That’s what the stories said, he remembers. That when you die, there would be demons and monsters to cage your soul. That Death only shows you the possibility, you have to make the journey by yourself.

The snow doesn’t even crunch under their feet. The trees don’t snap and the wind doesn’t blow. It’s the stillness of death surrounding them, silence dragging down on their shoulders. Not even the rasping breaths that forced their way out of Malakai broke the silence.

Death was a… quiet place. A quiet and dark place. It’d be lonely too, if it weren’t for the tiny hand he couldn’t even _feel_ in his grasp. He kept staring at it, this bright little beacon in his rotting hand that held so much promise.

The monsters catch them. They trip up Malakai and he’s buried under snow. Breathing becomes an impossibility, too much weight on his chest to even be bearable. The hand slips, slips and-

There’s nothing.

No light at the end of the tunnel. Just darkness, an ever pressing darkness weighing him down. There’s nothing warm about it, nothing comforting. It’s the Qleehl’s grasp tightening around his throat and choking down his every breath.

The monsters caught him.

He blinks.

The girl’s back, tugging at him. Her mouth moves, there’s no sound.

Everything is frozen.

Quiet.

Still.

The monsters stalk, circling,

Circling.

A hard tug, for a second he saw Death and then it’s the girl again. The world is sour, a consuming sour. A feeling of _hurry hurry **hurry**_. There’s a storm brewing, the winds building up in the wastelands.

There’s not though, everything is still. Deathly still. Deathly quiet. Everything is dead already.

He stumbles forward, dragged forward by a pale hand that saved him from monsters.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel again. A cabin. He can see it in the shadows, trees dipping into the wooden walls, branches trying to consume the little piece of light it offers.

The monsters fall behind, vanish into the darkness. They melt back into the trees and suddenly everything is so _loud_. A deafening roar ripping around him. The Qleehl screams her hatred; Death celebrates his victory. The girl opens the door of the cabin and Malakai falls through.

“Fuck. I hate it here, I hate it, hate it, _hate it_!” The girl kicks the door shut, forcing the angry winds away. Keeping them outside, all of the monsters _outside_. Malakai was inside, in the warmth and safety of Death.

He blinks.

She melts away, sourness sticking to the air and there’s suddenly an older man standing there. Gray hair wild and the black fur barely covers the broad, broad shoulders. There’s scars, ripping all over the face and the golden skin available and he’s storming over towards the fire place.

It’s dying, the fire. Little gasping embers left behind and reaching. The old man throws them around before dropping a few blocks of wood into the fire and they _scream_. It’s a ghastly sound, like the monsters outside. Something furious and monstrous.

“Get closer to the fire.” He’s demanding, like the little girl was demanding. Malakai blinks, his mind spinning and spinning. The sweetness suffocates, sticking to the back of his throat like blood. “Come on, I know you’re slow but you can’t be that slow. Get by the damned fire before you freeze to death.”

Time stills like the outside, like Death is just waiting in bated breath for something to come. Then Malakai moves, a stumble further in and the old man stays watching by the fireplace. There’s a pause when Malakai settles in front of the fire, his rotting hands raised to the heat as he lets his flesh burn.

“You should heal that. White magic aren’t you?” The voice is gruff, demanding and dark. The old man crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. The black fur swallows up his torso, blending with the graying, frayed hair.

The sweetness drowns and his hands _burn_ like never before.

“You have pretty severe frostbite right there. I think the old cure back in the day was cutting off the limbs. Now what we’re doing here is… healing your dead skin. I’m not exactly sure how, but just…” It’s the girl again, the voice squeaking at the end and the black fur drags at the ground. “I don’t know. Magic yourself some working hands.”

The world spins and spins like a top. The warmth eats away at the cold and the first shiver wrecks Malakai. He opens his mouth, his frozen skin shatters like ice and no sound escapes.

She’s moving around, dropping the black fur on the couch before vanishing out of sight. Malakai sits there on frozen knees, ice melting away from his skin as the fire bathes him in a burning warmth. The air is sweet, sickening sweet with a sour aftertaste and chokes his every breath. It sticks to the open wounds, mixing with the copper taste of blood with every swallow.

“I’m going to get us some food. Not many options other than canned spam and soup. Ivory had the oddest taste in food. Everything else went bad so… don’t expect anything grand but…” A pause, a considering hum and then the voice changes to that of a young boys, “some food is better than none right?”

Malakai doesn’t dare to look up at the girl, boy, man, _whatever_. He stares steadfast into the fire, every muscle tense and stabbing. His bare hand rots, black blood dripping onto the wooden floor in front of the fire. His ears ring, Qleehl’s anger echoing in the false safety of the cabin.

“What’s your name anyway? We’re going to be stuck for a long while so…” The voice stays the same, steady footsteps echoed around him as the person, monster, _killer_ stalks behind. Malakai can’t even open his mouth, lips stitched shut with ice and snow. The footsteps creep nearer and then the voice rings right inside his ear, “Hey, your name? Or… are you okay? I’m not sure how long you were out there. I have a suspicion but…”

There’s bloody eyes staring at him, Death’s face looming over his shoulder and Malakai can’t look away. His rotting hand moves, jarring and slow and he can’t _feel_ anything, but he knows-

On his waist, somewhere, with the belt and bags and-

Somewhere-

Something digs into his hip, his hand curls and he thinks maybe-

Maybe-

A knife, or anything, _anything_ -

Malakai blinks, the sweet taste suffocates _everything_ -

The bloody eyes flicker to the side that Malakai refused to acknowledge. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You should heal yourself, see what happens.” There’s an impish grin. Like the boy, the _monster_ knows something he doesn’t. An impossibility, a possibility, Malakai’s mind _spins_.

He raises a hand, a pale, pale hand of frosty skin. Blood seeps from a cut across the palm. Suddenly the hand shrinks, the girl with bleeding hair stares at him with wide, innocent eyes and her soft voice says, “You said you wouldn’t hurt me after all.”


	8. Forgotten Prisons

“I don’t want to stay here.” Aizel is like a child, petulant and whiny when he doesn’t get his way. He doesn’t _understand_ things like he should at times. He only understands the things that he _wants_ to understand.

Felix watched the boy for a moment before, “Working for Tanya really isn’t that bad.” Working with Natalia was a different story though. She’d probably like Aizel anyways; at least once she stops connecting him to Felix. It wasn’t Felix’s fault that the woman disliked him.

“And what am I supposed to do? Sit at some bar serving alcohol I’m not even allowed to drink?” Aizel leans down to snatch up one of the loose rocks on the side of the road. He stares at it for a good second, turning it every which way before throwing it ahead of them.

“Research. Talk to people; really, bars are a great place to find out information. Look into that murder or whatever anti-nephlim groups that are sprouting up. Get more detailed information on that hospital of yours or-”

“Which, I can do all of that _with you guys_. How could I even tell you guys anything when you’re gone?” Aizel fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket as he stills to a stop. “It’s not like you guys like to carry around phones. What am I supposed to do? Find a way to teleport letters to you?”

Felix sighs, pinching his nose. If he knew Aizel was going to throw a fit he would have found some other way to tell him. Or not tell him at all, and he and Rizeal would have just hit the road without the boy. The world was just so quiet and empty though, everything simply dancing at the edge of his mind, but never close enough for him to catch up with it. “Look, kiddo-”

“And that!” Aizel sharply turns towards Felix as he swipes a single fag out and lights it up. “I’m not a _kid_. Just because I’m what- ten? Twenty? Years younger than you doesn’t make me a _child_.” He sucks in a toxic inhale as he fumes. 

“Aizel.”

Smoke explodes from Aizel’s mouth before he continues, “No- Don’t- You told me I could make a difference! You said I could help! So why would you guys send me away? I can _help_.” He jabs the cigarette in Felix’s direction with a scowl.

“Aizel, it’s not that. Look-”

“You guys don’t even _know_ anyone from the CME. Or what buildings they use or-”

“Aizel.” The name is snapped out before Felix can stop it. He gives a sigh; the temptation to snatch the cigarette out of Aizel’s hand an uncomfortable itch. 

Aizel turns away, lips a thin line before he goes to take another inhale around the fag. 

“We aren’t clueless.” Felix makes sure his voice is soft, gentle. As if he was talking to some scared child. Aizel’s entire posture is frigid, teeth clenched tight and fingers trembling around his fag. “Tanya’s was only a suggestion. Yes, you can help us, but you can help us either with us or working at Tanya’s. And if you’re with us there’s a lot more risk involved.”

“I’m not saying you are. It’s just-” Another puff of smoke escapes Aizel’s lips.

“You don’t even like traveling.” Felix adds.

“I know. It’s just,” Aizel kicks at the gravel around their feet.

“I understand you want to help. We are simply trying to look out for you, and Tanya’s is the best thing I can find.”

Aizel sulks, taking in another pull from the cigarette before releasing the smoke into the air. He looks up at the sky, eyes shut and freckled skin embracing the sun. “I don’t want to stay here.” He repeats.

“What’s so bad about _here_?” What Felix would do for the world to be loud again. He hated when the air was empty and light; it always took him off balance and he hated the feeling of falling into empty air. 

Honey eyes flicker open and another puff of smoke slithers into the air. “I want to help. In more ways than just sitting in a bar and being another pretty face.” Aizel’s voice is quiet, as if he was telling a secret and didn’t want anyone else to hear. 

“You’re looking into things, remember? That’s helping.”

A scoff and suddenly Aizel is staring straight at Felix, “Yeah. Big help I was, a newspaper article did all my work for me. There was nothing for me to do.” He spits out the words as if they were acid.

“And what of the anti-nephlim organization?” It’s bait, Felix falling into the more familiar dance of dangling the carrot in front of Aizel.

“It’s not. Nobody I talked to heard anything about some organization in the area. No recruitment, no noise. It’s probably just some mercenary group picking up odd jobs.” 

“And did the newspaper say that?”

“No, but-” Aizel huffs when Felix swats at the back of his head.

“Stop worrying. You’re helping. Just imagine, if you were working at the bar you could pick up more gossip than usual.” Felix flashes a grin as Aizel snorts.

“Yeah, from old farts like you.” There’s a pause and for a second Felix thinks that they are done. Everything is quiet, calm like a spring breeze on a sunny morning. Then-

“Did I do something wrong?”

Felix closes his eyes, tries to find something other than the quiet stillness that surrounds his mind. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” If it wasn’t quiet he’d understand. He wouldn’t have to ask, “Why do you think you did something wrong?”

“Why else would you send me away? You aren’t sending anyone else away.” Aizel hovers over his cigarette and refuses to look away from his hand. 

“It’s only me and Rizeal that are leaving.”

“But-” Aizel pauses before releasing a puff of smoke with the words, “Why can’t I come with you?” 

All Felix has to offer is a sigh. “Come on, we need to stop dallying. Rizeal is waiting for us.” He waits a second, watches as Aizel seems to deflate like a balloon that was just pricked before he thumps the boy’s shoulder. “If you can get Rizeal to agree to it, you can tag along.”

It was a dirty move, sure. He’d do it again though. Aizel perks up, flicking his cigarette to the side before increasing the length of his strides. “Really? Do you think she will?”

“I don’t know what you are getting all excited for. It’s not a vacation. We’re going to Atynik to recruit people while participating in a rally.” Felix huffs out, the words dragging across his tongue as he speaks.

“When was that decided?”

“It was what was originally planned if we did pick up Tyria, and it’s down south so it’s close enough to Mavinsport.” There’s a house in the distance, a small little thing. Felix already knows what he’ll see when he’s closer, rusted hinges on a door that’s on the brink of falling apart and shuttered windows tucked into the walls. It isn’t his house though, some abandoned place that Rizeal picked the lock for years ago. “You’ve never been here, have you?”

Aizel pounces on the idea within seconds, “Is it some secret location? Home base or something? I thought Andrea’s was a bit on the small side.” The boy talks too fast, completely blowing over every single word with the one after.

“Nothing like that, it’s a… home away from home. For when Laqrea gets too loud.” Or when they need to pay their respects. When the Godlings demand more things out of them than they can give. The hovel is a safety net, with a hole burned clean through.

It’s an excuse, a placebo to soothe any burns they receive in their travels.

“Laqrea isn’t loud in the winter though.” Aizel is probably thinking that the silence kills in the city during winter. Everyone hiding in their own apartments and secluding themselves from society. He doesn’t understand the difference from the quiet solitude of nothing and the quiet of a sleeping city.

The quiet nothing deafens Felix. Silence pressing in like gravity with a prejudice against anything daring to move in its presence.

“It’s not that kind of noise.”

Rizeal is sitting out on the porch with a knee hugged to her chest and her blonde head perched atop. She doesn’t even bother to give them attention as the two boys walk up the gravel path to the tiny hut.

“There’s only one kind of noise?” Aizel squints at Felix, the words dragging slowly in the air as if the answer was obvious.

“That depends entirely on your definition of noise.” Felix sighs out before bringing a hand close to his mouth and hollering, “Rizeal!”

She doesn’t even flinch. Not a single muscle moves as she keeps watching them with that blank look of hers.

Aizel jumps, feet skittering to the side as his entire body jerks. The poor boy reaches up, two fingers rubbing at his ears as he sends Felix the dirtiest look he can muster, “Did you have to yell?”

A grin consumes Felix’s face as he says, “Have to show some excitement else she’ll think we don’t care.”

“Maybe we don’t.” That’s a bold faced lie if Felix ever heard one. The boy was too young to _not_ care. Not enough life experiences to make him a pessimist.

“Don’t get salty on me now.” Felix nudges Aizel with his elbow as he gives the boy a wolfish smile, “Don’t you have a question for Rizeal anyways?”

The boy’s head jerked up so fast that there was a risk for whiplash. Amber eyes wide as he glanced at Felix before staring at Rizeal as if she had all the answers. It was probably cruel of him, but Felix couldn’t stop the laugh from bubbling up from his chest.

The young boy was too predictable. His strides got longer, faster. Aizel’s mind most likely a one track road and only thinking of one thing.

Rizeal stops her blatant staring as soon as Aizel is a few yards away. She just gives him a cursory glance before turning ice cold eyes towards Felix, “Is there a reason for Aizel being here?”

Aizel freezes, foot hovering uselessly in the air before he turns slightly to stare at Felix with wide eyes.

Felix figures he should count his lucky stars that Aizel didn’t go straight to the offensive. Obviously the kid was still wounded from earlier and was trying to avoid stepping on any toes.

“Had something to tell him, and figured he could share the information he has with you instead of me playing middle man. You know my memory is faulty sometimes.” Aizel look back over at Rizeal with his chin up high as if daring her to argue with Felix.

Rizeal simply rolls her eyes. “Well come on, we have limited time.”

“Why would we have limited time?” Aizel is striding up to the porch, head cocked to the side as the words escape him. Felix pauses for a second to shake his head before following him.

“Because of the rally. In Atynik. It starts in two weeks, kid.”

Aizel turns around to stare at Felix, face morphing into a scowl as he starts, “I’m not a-“ He gives a huff before finishing with, “Atynik is only a week’s journey at most. There’s plenty of time.”

“Not if you keep dallying.” Rizeal snaps. She’s standing in the open door watching the two. If Felix could hear her through the stifling silence he’s sure she’d be cursing the two of them. There are benefits to having his mind smothered with the emptiness of the air.

“Yes, my dear. We’re hurrying.” Felix beams at her as he pushes Aizel forward. The boy simply spins around and shuffles his feet forward.

“My dear.” Her voice is flat as she echoes the sentiment.

“Dear. Honey. Love. Sunshine of my life. Star of my night-“

“Shut up. Please, before I lose any more brain cells.” There’s a twitch of a smile though so Felix takes it as a victory.

“Yes, sweetheart. Anything for you.”Aizel’s moving faster, edging further away from Felix as if he could escape the incessant words. Rizeal takes sympathy on the boy and lets him dart into the house before blocking the door again.

“But seriously, why did you bring him?” Her voice is low, eyes darting to the side as if she could see behind herself.

“He’s got nothing else, and what’s the harm. I figured if he’s staying he could watch over the house.”

“Yes, because this house needs protecting. What’s going to happen? A pair of grave robbers going to try to pilfer this rotting mess?” Rizeal pushes herself away from the doorway before heading deeper into the house.

“You never know. I think we have a very unique table set in the cupboards that they would want to steal.” Given, if they were grave robbers they would be hitting the backyard rather than the house itself.

“You’re stupid.” Rizeal calls over her shoulder, her voice the embodiment of exasperation.

“Only for you!” Felix sings as he chases after her.

Once they get to the kitchen the smile is wiped clean off Felix’s face. There’s piles of newspapers, clippings from magazines, and letters all scattered about in some haphazard way.

“What did you even do.” He can feel his lip curling and nose wrinkling at the sight. He didn’t even know where to begin. Aizel looks up, amber eyes wide as if getting caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. He’s holding one of the letters close to his face.

“I didn’t do anything!” The words are snapped, the letter being thrust away and released to the wilds of the other paper.

“I just grabbed everything that seemed helpful.” Rizeal isn’t even fazed. She just walks in and plops down on one of the rickety chairs.

“But that’s mine-“ Felix is aghast, hands hanging in the air as if it could help with anything. “Please tell me that’s _not_ mine.” The words are a beg and he’s swiveling his attention towards Rizeal.

“Sure. It’s not yours.” She plucks up the letter Aizel dropped. The poor kid just sits there, nibbling on his lip as he watches the two. “Why’d you pick up this one?”

Felix wishes he could tell if she’s lying. Actually, he _knows_ she’s lying. She’s got this little twitch of a smile as she tries to redirect the attention on Aizel. “You’re lying.”

Blue eyes glance over at Felix and her face morphs into the picture of innocence as she says, “How could I lie to you? I’m the sunshine of your life remember?”

“Uhm, those- he worked with the CME a lot.” Aizel throws out the words like they’re a grenade and he’s just waiting for it to go off.

“What? Who is it?” Felix reaches over to snag the letter out of Rizeal’s grasp. She relents without a fight, merely rolling her eyes before drifting her attention elsewhere in the chaotic pile.

The letter is from some Dr. Atonia, professing the dangers of a gathering of nephlims of both strands of the disease. Someone who mainly researched the long lasting effects of the disease. He… Felix couldn’t remember actually.

“He stopped by the hospital pretty frequently, liked to pull from the records.” Aizel fills in without being prompted. His eyes have gone big as he leans forward to peek at the letter again. “Quiet guy, he never really talked to anyone.”

“And he just waltzed into a CME facility?” It’s got Rizeal’s attention, her soft voice ringing in the air.

“I mean- I don’t- I’m sure he didn’t _waltz_ in. There’s a,” Aizel flounders, hand gesturing at his chest before he decides on, “clearance? A badge. So, he didn’t just waltz in.”

“Hmm, he doesn’t have any affiliation to the CME noted in his signature.” Felix skims over the letter again, “Do you think he’d try to ban gatherings of nephlims? That’s something the CME would probably go for.”

“Not like we’ll hear of it before it happens.” Rizeal looks away, browsing through the piles of papers again.

“If you look hard enough, there is always a paper trail.” Felix hums before, “There’s probably going to be CME at the rally.”

“To keep the peace. Yeah.” The kid rolls his eyes before bringing his attention to the mess on the table. “I had to do it once. Pulled the short straw, anyone can do it because they don’t actually expect anything to happen and we were trained enough to fire a gun or whatever they wanted us to do.”

“How many did they have standing by?” Rizeal flicks through a piece of paper before freezing, blue eyes darting up to Felix. She probably found Aizel’s notes about the suspected mercenaries. That, or it was something else that Felix missed; he’s been stuffing everything that could be relevant to the rally in the single binder and he didn’t go over half of it before handing it off to Rizeal.

It was orderly though, at least when he had it. Obviously not after Rizeal got her hands on it and sprawled the contents all over the dining room of the little cottage.

“It was a small one, so we had… four watches? Yeah, four watches. For something big there’d probably be closer to ten. Or twenty if they think it might get rowdy.”

Felix leans over Rizeal’s shoulder, skimming over the words _Tyria’s protest was actually supposed to be pointed towards the research facilities than anything else. Daclin Anders (Metchkins University) said she frequently wrote letters to their board and threatened to report them for nephlim abuse and neglect because their studier were inhumane._

“What’s this rally about again?” Felix muses, reaching over to turn the page.

“Focusing of segregation. Jobs. I think Sam mentioned the research facilities too, but something more like opening the tests as a job opportunity? Since a lot of things make sense in the logical way of keeping the disease contained, but they’re still _people_ so not having a job makes them face hard choices and unsavory paths.”

“Who’s Sam?” Aizel stops his pilfering of the stacks of paper to stare at the other two.

“Old friend.” Rizeal grabs half of the stack and hands it to Felix when he tries to turn the page again. “Go bother someone else.” A hand waves behind her and Felix laughs before placing the pile back on the table.

“Come on, we can look at this later. We have other things to do.”

“Like what?” Aizel drops the notes in his hands as he stands up.

“Not you. You can figure out where the CME officers are going to be, there should be a map somewhere in this disaster.” Felix waves at the kid, watching as his face crumbles like a sandcastle in the middle of a storm.

“But-“ Aizel looks away, lips pouting and eyebrows drawn low before he turns and his excitement spills into the open air, “Does that mean I’m coming with you guys?”

Silence ticks like a bomb before Felix says, “I told you, that’ll be up to-“

“No.” Rizeal doesn’t even look up as she throws down the words.

The results might as well be a detonation with the way Aizel flinches, his mouth a pinched line before blurting out, “Why not? I can help! I can- I can-“

“Get caught? The place will be swarming with CME, so you won’t even be able to do what you usually do and play pretend to get information.” She shifts through the stack in front of her again.

“Plus,” Felix watches as the boy withers away, probably thinking that Rizeal is heartless. His amber eyes flicker over to Felix as the older man says, “You haven’t even been out of the CME for a year. The chances of them recognizing you would be quite high. You’d be stuck hiding the entire time.”

“But I could point out if anyone dangerous came. Like, you guys would never recognize Death. _Never_. I could, I can spot him a mile away, what if he shows up? Or if it’s someone else high up in the ranks?” The boy’s eyes are wide and desperate as he stands and makes aborted gestures with his hands.

Felix wishes he could actually _hear_. That it there wasn’t a stifling silence smothering his mind. “Aizel, this isn’t our first time dealing with the CME.” It’s a gentle reminder, a small nudge to get the boy thinking.

“But I could-“

Rizeal drops the pretense of reading to stare at the boy, “You could what? Hide? Your parlor trick won’t work in that city, everyone is too used to the CME to think that one of them is gonna talk gossip with them. You’ve never even been in that city before so it’s not like you’ll be able to point out where they usually gravitate.”

Aizel looks like he swallowed something unpleasant, shifting a step back as his entire body caves in. It’s heartbreaking, in an odd sort of way. It’s like watching the boy’s hopes and dreams getting crushed, Felix was just lucky not to hear it.

It’d be a frozen lake that thawed just enough to crack under Rizeal’s words.

“How about this,” Felix shoots a look at Rizeal as she gives a sigh before continuing, “you find out _who_ killed Tyria Ionar and you can come with us. You’ll need evidence though, paperwork. The whole deal.”

It’s an impossible task for such a short amount of time. It’s enough to have Aizel stop cowering, holding his chin high as he gives the brightest smile, “Deal!”

Rizeal just looks at Felix, face a frozen landscape and he’s sure she’s thinking _hope you know what you are doing_. When does he ever know what he’s doing? She trusts him though, she’ll always trust him, so Felix just grins and pats her back, “Well, we have things to we need to do first.”

“What kind of things?”

“Adult things. Kids should stick with the paperwork.” Felix just grins at the dirty look Aizel sends him as the boy turns his attention back to the disaster of a table. “Just think, you can have a head start on finding the mercenaries.”

Felix pats the kid’s back as he walks past. He doesn’t need to look back to see the mocking movement of the boy’s head, he doesn’t even need to be able to _hear_ to know the disgruntled whispers that escaped the boy before he sighs and rustles through the paper. Rizeal is on Felix’s heels without even a pause.

“Let me guess,” She closes the door to the dining room behind her with a soft _snick_ before continuing, “contingency plan? Thought he was going to be babysitting the house.”

“He is, it’s just something to get his mind off things. Plus, we could use the information anyways so what’s the harm?” He offers her a shrug before heading out the backdoor.

The backyard was a graveyard. In both the metaphorical and literal sense. Or, as much as a dead yard can be a graveyard with only one grave in it. There’s a tree, broken and failing to reach the sky on the outskirts of the yard and dying bramble everywhere else.

It was the first place they stumbled upon when they were on the run after robbing some funeral home. Felix can still remember watching as Rizeal’s hands trembled as she picked a lock to a rusty old house. It was just for a quick break, but-

It was an escape. There was no magic, and nothing to connect them to this house, or the house the crimes, or anything. So they stayed, and stayed and eventually they dug a hole in the backyard and dropped the ceramic pot into it before burying it.

The gravestone was a silver river rock with the name _Felix Satchins_ chipped into it. Or, that’s what used to be chipped into it. Years out in the rainy weather eroded it so that the bits that weren’t deeply etched in the rock had vanished to nothing. Meaningful in a way it was never supposed to be.

“Did you know that I was the one to talk to him first?”

Rizeal doesn’t even ask who, she just hums. As she crouches next to the stone.

“He was ashamed of his magic, his mum told him to hide it away and everything. And I was thinking, that’s a sure shame. To hide something like that. I don’t know if he ever told you that.”

“You’re getting quite maudlin over there.”

Felix sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before looming over both Rizeal and the misshapen river rock. It wasn’t even that pretty, they could have picked something better. Should have.

“I just feel like history is repeating itself. Godlings forbid if it does. I don’t think we have anything left to offer between the two of us.”

“Could always offer up Aizel or Natalia.” There’s a smirk gracing Rizeal’s lips as she says the words.

Felix can’t help but laugh as he says, “Yes, let’s offer up the kid and the druid. Then history will be repeating itself. Could you imagine?”

A thoughtful hum before she says, “I don’t think Aizel could pass of as Natalia or vice versa. Wrong genders, you know?” Felix shakes his head as she looks up at him. “Aren’t you the one always saying everything is going to be okay?”

He is. Optimism; someone had to have it and Rizeal wasn’t going to be the one to pick up on what they lost so Felix did. Forced optimism, which was better than none, but the real deal would always be superior. He shuts his eyes, lets a grim smile take his lips before saying, “And everything is going to be alright. What else do we have to lose?”

“Don’t tempt the Godlings, Felix.” Rizeal looks back at the grave and reaches out to touch the soil. It’s probably frozen solid. Harsh and rough and dead. Normally, the burials would be warm and soft. Normally, those held within the walls of the earth walked among the Godlings though.

Ashes could never walk, only haunt.

“They can be quite cruel when tempted.” Her words are soft, a whisper in the frigid wind before she stands up and turns to face Felix.

“I think I already know of their cruelty. Hasin did not play nice when we asked for their help.” He touches one of the thin cuts slicing up his face. It’s a barely there edge, something faint but glaringly obvious if you know what to look for.

“Some would say they showed their generosity when you survived.” Rizeal moves away, heading towards the house as she looks for something. Felix shut his eyes, envisioning everything he was missing and would never have again.

“It always feels blasphemous when we do this.” Felix waits for the telltale ripple of laugher to float into the air as Rizeal came back.

“Going against your religious little heart, are we?” She’s holding a bushel of weeds and prayer beads as she stops at the foot of the stone.

“A little. The Godlings never liked fire.”

“Good thing we aren’t getting luck from them.” And she drops the weeds and beads down onto the river rock. There’s a second of silence before Felix reaches down with one of Aizel’s many lighters and sets fire to the weeds.

“May we have a safe journey until we come back.” He whispers to the smoke.

“Watch over us forever and always.” Rizeal’s words are lost in the wind and the two stand there, watching the bushel turn to ash and the prayer beads waste away into nothing.

Felix touches his cheek, finger grazing one of the slivers before he shuts his eyes. “We should have offered blood.”

“You always say that.”

“He offered his life, it’s the least we could do.”

Rizeal leans into Felix’s arm, a steady warmth and a solid ground to stand on if everything else were to fall apart. “And you offered your magic.”

A dry laugh before, “I think, if we are going into the specifics, that’s what killed him.”

The smoke is sour, pungent as the beads burn. It’s what regret would smell like, if regret had a smell.

“Come on, you got a kid to babysit.” Rizeal nudges at him again.

“Not _babysitting_.” Felix protests, finally opening his eyes to take one last look at the river rock with its pile of ashes. Maybe now the soil around it would be soft as the haunting soul returned, but-

He’d never know. He didn’t dare to test it.

“It’s definitely babysitting. You have a soft spot for all the useless ones.”

There’s another nudge before the warmth vanishes and Felix is left standing on his own. He shuts his eyes before turning and,

“Goodbye Nathan, until next time.”

He goes back inside to the decrepit little house and continues to plot changing the world for the better.


	9. Old Stories

**_Erica,_ **

**_I’m sorry. For everything._ **

**_I don’t think I’m coming home. I don’t think you would want me to come home. ~~Ghost is~~_ ** ~~~~

**_I’m going to die. ~~I might be the reason~~_ **

**_I miss you._ **

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His wound was healed. The cut, not the rotting. The cut was healed on both of their hands. Malakai doesn’t know _why_ he healed it. The words, the face, _everything_ was just too much. So he had sat there, watching the browning blood on the pale hand as his hand stitched itself back together.

It lagged, at first. And then it was sweet and suddenly _that_ hand was healing too.

It was sweet, but there was something else. Something softer. _His_ magic was there too, he could pull at it and tear it apart but it was _his_. It was his and it healed the monster that had crouched in front of him with the face of a child.

That was the worst part, that _Ghost_ was a child killer. That was the only explanation for the face she wore. She wasn’t a child. She might have been a girl, but she wasn’t a _child_.

She only turned into her victims.

That-

That _child_ was a _victim_. She had killed a _child_.

She left him alone after showing him her trickery. Humming a soft sune as she rummages around behind Malakai. He loses track of time, cowering in front of a fire with his rotting hands outstretched and mind numb and frozen.

She returns, or he since it was the old man walking around, and deposits a small bowl next to Malakai. Not much time passes before he makes a second trip to the fireplace to drop a blanket around Malakai’s shoulders.

The fire burns.

Malakai sat there and he melted into the fire. Slowly.

Slowly.

So very slowly.

The food in the bowl chills, freezing over. At some point when Malakai blinks his eyes there is a pile of books next to the bowl.

It isn’t until later, when he cracks his skin to pick up the books that he realizes what they are. Books on frostbite. On skin diseases. There was even a book on the godling of frost. Old cures from the old days when medicine was rudimentary.

The monster in sheep’s clothing was nowhere to be found. Not on the quick customary glance he gave the shabby hole Malakai found himself in.

The fire slowly dies, and once he moves Malakai slowly feeds it logs.

Slowly.

He drops the logs half the time, leaving him to stare at them as they crumble to the wooden floor. The fire is never happy with what it’s given, spitting out protests as it suffocates. Malakai tries to nudge the logs, a burning feeling on rotten flesh that _eats_ away at the nerves.

The books are interesting. Technical, bordering on dull, but he could test it and envision the whole process and then the reverse process. His magic was like a blanket of comfort in the forsaken cabin. He doesn’t explore the place, just sits in front of the fire with the books open around him.

The bowl stays untouched.

His hand is still a mixture of black blue, hard and cold to the touch, but he could _feel_ something. Frozen knives going up his bloodstream with every move. Pins and needles consuming the entirety of the rotting flesh.

The fire burns in the worst way possible. He doesn’t dare try to reverse his other hand, fearing the result of two unusable hands.

He fears the possibility of losing his hands. He probably already lost them.

He couldn’t really write, his attempt at writing resulting in incomprehensible letters scrawled across a mauled page. Turning pages in the books was an impossibility that eludes him every time he tries. Well, he could turn pages, just it was more like clumps of pages than a single page.

The next time he sees the monster is after the fire finally dies. His attempts a lost cause when the logs stop making it to the fire and instead find a home on the outskirts of the fireplace.

Malakai cowers, clutching the blanket as tightly as possible to his shoulders. His throat is a dry mess, fingers burning and _burning_. He gave up on reading some time ago, back when there was still one tiny flame flickering in the fireplace.

Now all there is are dying embers and a drowning kind of silence. The Qleehl’s angry roars died down when the fire’s roars began.

“You should eat.” Malakai can’t help the way his entire body tenses at the words, at the _voice_. When he turns it is a new face that welcomes him, a chubby man all warm and brown colored with green eyes peering down at him.

Malakai would have spoken if his throat wasn’t so dry. If it didn’t hurt so _godling damned much_. If blood wasn’t frozen to the roof of his mouth. Instead he just opens his mouth, fists spasming against the blanket he holds.

The monster, the _child kille,r_ simply blinks at him, giving a warm smile that isn’t even _his_. “Is it not to your tastes? Unfortunately Ivory didn’t really leave a wide variety. She was supposed to be here too, I wasn’t-“ There’s a frown, eyebrows furrowing and green eyes squinting before he continues in a more timid voice, “I was a bit early I guess. I was… I knew his face. Your partner, I saw it before. Or, not me?”

He licks his lips before shaking his head and replacing the confused frown with a smile, “But, you’re lucky I found you. Shouldn’t waste that. Even if you don’t like it,” The monster nudges the bowl closer to Malakai before continuing, “you should eat. I can… I’ll get you some water too.”

The frown is back and the monster leaves Malakai’s side. Malakai doesn’t dare move, still trying to make the blanket merge with his skin even though it _hurts_. The monster isn’t gone for long, he’s back with another satchel hanging out of his hand. There’s a pause, the satchel in reach as Malakai stares at it before the man gently puts it next to the bowl.

“Your-“ The green eyes shift, turning slightly red before they flash green again, “hands. Did the books not help? I’m not- I was never _good_ at the healing part of white magic but I could-“ He’s reaching _, reaching,_ hand outstretched and the sweet taste floats in the air again.

“No!” The flinch is brutal, Malakai’s entire body jolting away from that hand and eyes wide and unseeing and the magic keeps _reaching_. The monster pauses, pulling back and he shifts, and there’s the girl. Her eyes are darker, greener and heartbroken and-

Bile rises up Malakai’s torn up throat. The sour _burn_ crawling into every frozen nook and cranny. That-

The girl was _dead_. The face the _monster_ wore was _dead_.

Her hair, her bleeding hair draped around her, curling into the face that still had bits of baby fat clinging to her cheeks. Malakai didn’t even know when she died. They had no records of the small child, at least not attached to Ghost’s name. She could have died years ago and he’s just looking at the ghost of some child that should be grown by now.

She could have-

“I’m- There’s water. And food. You should…” The monster gestures to the satchel and bowl before folding into herself, “I’m going to- You should eat. I don’t know if- The bond could- You should eat.” She’s skittering back a few steps, casting another wary glance at Malakai before darting away.

A door slams somewhere in the cabin.

Malakai sits there, tremors rippling up and down his body, hands still spasming and he can’t even _hold_ the blanket anymore. All he was doing was pressing stiff fingers against the thick warmth. He sits there until the chill of Qleehl started to creep into his bones, the shivering returns and it _hurts_.

Everything hurt. The shivering, the tremors, his _hands_. It took several tries before he could get a log into the fireplace and even then, the embers only wink at him. Nothing happens. They don’t eat the log, only continue to die out. Warmth ending and Malakai has to wonder if he’s even still alive.

The monster returns, the old man this time. There’s a cursory glance and then he’s shifting to kneel by the fireplace, a lighter in his hands. “There’s a fire in the library. That would-“ The fire catches, a small flame claiming life and eating away the log that Malakai had struggled to place. “It’d be better. You could see if-“

He pauses, the gruff voice dying in the monster’s throat before a cough rumbles out of him. “You could see if there’s any other books that could help with the-“ A gesture, the lighter slipping into a pocket on his pants. The old man’s frown deepens when he notices the untouched satchel and bowl.

“Look. You need to eat. I didn’t- I’m not going to _die_ because of you okay? So you are going to eat. Don’t you have… don’t you have someone to go home to?” The words are like a dagger and all of Malakai’s breath escapes him the second the monster stabs him.

He does, he _does_ have someone to go home to. He’s already accepted never going home though, it was a bitter pill to swallow, but he wasn’t going to be going home anyways. He… he was stupid.

He was stupid and he didn’t listen and he followed the cookie crumbs all the way to his grave.

“Because you _can_ go home. I just- I know the way back okay? I grew up here, I know how to- I just needed insurance that you wouldn’t kill _me_. That’s why- And, and-“ The monster’s face flickers, for a second he sees the child and then it pales drastically, crimson eyes stare at him and the gray hair curls and curls. “You _can’t_ die right now, okay? Not now. I’m- I’m…”

The monster nudges the bowl with his foot, “Eat. I’ll- I’ll get you some more, but you should eat.” He offers one last frown, brows digging deep into his nose and lips pressed thin before he turns on his heel and walk back to where Malakai supposes the kitchen of the cabin was.

The bowl sits there, soup thick and old with a spoon tucked to the side. Malakai’s stomach was ice though, even if he _wanted_ to eat he couldn’t. He’d eat just to throw it back up as soon as it hits the ice at the bottom of his esophagus.

He can’t bring his eyes away from the bowl and satchel though. He can hear the crackling of the fire eating away at the log but he can’t turn his head to _see_ it. He’s frozen, ice crawling up his veins and sticking to his muscles. His brain is sluggish, slowly consuming words that the monster said but-

But-

Nothing made sense. Nothing _made sense_.

Malakai was probably dead. Or hallucinating or,

How could someone even grow up in the Qleehl Mountains? _No one_ lives there. The cabin says otherwise, but everyone knows; anyone who knows anything about anything _knows_ that the Qleehl Mountains are the cursed lands. It’s where the exiled went to die and turn into monsters and _freeze_.

How could-

The bowl is still there and Malakai doubts his ability to even _grab_ it.

The warmth is burning next to him.

Malakai still shivers, these awful tremors that wreck his body. It’s an ache in his bones as they clatter together. The ice makes ticking noise every time he even tries to move. He stares at the bowl and the satchel and before he knows it those monstrous eyes are back.

Crimson eyes, those are unnatural. The eyes of demons they say. Usually those with red eyes are offered up as sacrifice. Especially after Nicholas. Those are the eyes of serial killers, those without morals.

It’s another victim, another that Malakai had never heard about. Another ghost the monster dons as if it were his own skin. He wears so many faces, the amount Malakai saw flash before his eyes before the monster settled on one- It was like he was rolling a dice to see who he’d wear and show off this time.

Another bowl is offered up, steam rolling off the creamy white soup. This time the monster stubbornly keeps holding it out, hovering right in Malakai’s frozen line of sight. “Eat.” The voice is gruff and demanding, the monster shoving the bowl even closer to Malakai.

He can’t even flinch back, entire body stock still as if the slightest movement will have gravity crashing upon him. He swallows air, mouth dry and with every breath there’s the golding awful pain. His throat constricts when the only thing he offers is the very oxygen that suffocates him.

The monster’s lips tighten even more, nearly becoming white with how hard he presses them together. It’s minutes, hours, _days_ before the bowl is tossed down, some soup spilling out and he’s snapping out, “You have until tomorrow morning and if you _still_ haven’t eaten I will either find a way to force feed you or I will leave you out in the cold to die.”

He turns, growing bigger and bigger and hair turning jet black as he storms away. The door slams as if the world itself is collapsing on them.

Malakai sits there like a statue, frozen.

Two bowls sit in front of him, the satchel just to the right. The mess on the floor is like a taunt.

The fire gurgles its appreciation for its food.

Another forceful swallow of air, lungs stretching so wide it hurts before everything forces itself out. The ice melts, just the smallest bit and Malakai moves. Everything cracks, shards splintering off as he jerks his body into motion.

He spills the soup when he grabs it, the hot liquid burning the tips of his fingers and dripping further onto the floor. He can feel it, barely on one hand and _agonizingly_ on the other. He almost drops it; almost throws it further away from himself as if it’s poison, but he forces his grip to remain. The entire bowl trembles, the soup stumbling from edge to edge as if waiting for the moment to slide free.

He can’t-

He can bring it close to his mouth, but then his joints grind to a halt. He just holds the bowl uselessly in his hands, burning the rot with the uncomfortable warmth. A timid glance back at the door that the monster vanished in and then Malakai fixes his glare at the bowl of soup dangling in his blackened hands.

He can’t eat it. Can’t dredge up the urge to even swallow the soup. The ice sitting in his stomach doesn’t melt, if anything it just grows, pushing further up and taking up more space.

The soup goes cold before he dares to bring it to his lips. The second he swallows it’s as if the soup was steaming hot with how it instantly melts the ice. Suddenly he’s famished and the cold soup is the best thing he’s ever eaten.

He scarfs the food down within seconds, forcing his body to grab the second bowl of cold soup before scarfing that down as well.

It’s on the floor minutes later, his entire body crumbling in on itself as it rejects the substance.

There’s more of a mess on the floor and its smells something awful. Bitter; it makes Malakai’s stomach roll at the mere sight let alone the smell. The bowls are tossed haphazardly to the side and the satchel sits close to the bile.

The fire dies again, the measly log offerings no longer enough to sate the tiny flame before it flickers out. The cold haunts and Malakai’s stomach feels like knives are being stabbed into it. His entire throat burns like acid just ripped through it.

He might have missed the satchel with his vomit, but he didn’t miss the books.

His hands shake as he goes to grab the satchel, trying to avoid staring at the sour and rotten mess sitting next to him. It’s almost impossible opening things, his fingers unable to get the proper grip and once they do-

Soothing water feels like a balm against his throat. He swallows the acid down and it mixes and everything cracks anew. Not as dry, not as _awful_ and when he swallows it’s not just air. He drops the satchel on the other side of himself and he sits.

And sits.

The blanket is a mess that’s crumbled around him, no longer being held around his shoulders. Malakai pauses, swallowing before he even dares to move. It’s wretched, standing up. His legs have pins and needles and they ache. Nothing moves right. He keeps stumbling down, legs shaking as if he couldn’t even bare his own weight.

He’s certain his hand has touched the bile, but he can’t really feel anything with that hand and he doesn’t dare to look. His stomach rolls at the mere thought. Once he’s standing he’s left staring at his surroundings.

At the dead fireplace, at the dark door that lead to the outside, and when he turns, the door that leads to wherever the monster vanished to. He could leave. He could pack as much as possible and he could _leave_.

He knows where the kitchen is; he heard the cans of food being shuffled around when Ghost was digging around for food and he’s confident he could find a bag somewhere in the cabin. The black fur coat that the monster had used originally was sitting on a lone couch, untouched. He could just take it and take food and get water and _leave_.

He’d die.

Malakai didn’t even know how far in the forest they were. He didn’t know his way around and even if he _did,_ the second he made it to the wastelands he’d be lost. He’d die from starvation or hypothermia or dehydration and he already barely scraped by once.

People usually don’t get third chances.

Malakai’s gaze flickers to the other door, the ominous door and the monster that lurks behind it. He’s not even sure if he got a second chance to begin with. For all he knows he’s just waiting by Death’s door, biding his time until the monster finally snaps.

One last swallow of air, the dryness at the back of his throat settling in again and he turns towards the door that only leads to the _possibility_ of death.

Walking is a challenge, his feet trip over themselves and he keeps reaching out to drag his hand across things to catch his weight. He did place his hand in vomit, the slimy substance has rubbed off on the walls and the couch as he stumbles his way towards the door.

He pauses at the door, sucking in a breath and bracing himself against the reality of what he was about to dare to do. It was the last chance to turn back, to sit by the dead fire and by the bile. His last chance to just wait out his sentence. He could do that, his mind was still a lazy fog that barely moves. He was still reeling on not dying out in the forest with the sweet taste teasing his tongue.

He touches the door knob, closes his eyes and opens the door.

It’s dark.

That’s the first thing that crosses his mind when he opens his eyes again. The room is some dark fathom, and in a corner tucked away is a girl. An older girl, but with burning hair and darker skin. It’s…

She’s the same girl he saw in Demsen, dead and surrounded by trash cans. She’s perched on her stomach, feet kicking in the air and her head resting in the palm of her hand as her other hand turned pages in one of the many books sprawled about her.

It’s the first victim he actually knows, all the other faces were strangers. This one, he can still see her covered in snow. He can see the neat cuts in the side of her neck and the black that blossomed out around her.

His stomach rebels, acid crawling up and up.

He chokes, swallowing it down and forces his eyes shut so he can’t see her, see the _monster_ that looked like the girl that was honestly _maybe_ nineteen years old. Some young person that was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like every other kill the monster made.

Malakai takes a step back, further away and he’s about to shut the door and just sit out by the dead fire and the bile and the ice when-

“Oh! You- I wasn’t- Is everything okay? I didn’t think you’d… Not that you can’t- Oh, did- Are you allergic?” There’s footsteps, pages rustling and the words are spouted out in a rush, all out in one breath. When Malakai forces his eyes open the monster stands in front of him with this worried pinched expression.

“You have- There’s some- I could just,” She’s reaching out and Malakai jerks further away, stumbling back. Her hand hangs in the air for a second before dropping like a marionette with the strings cut. She’s frowning, green eyes shuttering into a cold mask. “Sorry, forgot you didn’t like to be touched.”

Malakai is just stuck standing outside the doorway with ice crawling up his legs. He swallows, his throat an aching mess with acid burning into tender flesh before he risks saying, “You said I can go home?”

His voice sounds awful even to his own ears, like nails on a chalkboard and it feels like it too. The words vibrate every open wound and there’s the copper taste of blood at the back of his tongue.

The monster perks up, a smile flashing across her features and eyes crinkling at the side, “Yes! I’m not going to be here long so you can stay with me and- I mean, with the bond you kind of have to but-“ She releases a chuckle, “it doesn’t have to be that bad. It _won’t_ be that bad. I promise.”

The words are sickeningly sweet and they make Malakai’s stomach turn and twist. Malakai braces himself for the pain of speaking before asking, “What do you mean _bond_?”

He thinks he knows what she means. The cut on their palms- his _magic_ mixing with the monsters and _healing_ her. Like she was some thief who took away his magic the second he started using it. She blinks at him, face wide and innocent and _wrong_ before,

“If I die, you die. Our wounds are shared. A life for a life. Magic for magic. I know you didn’t-“ She frowns, licking her lips before trying again, “You didn’t exactly _agree_ but… It’s not that bad.”

Malakai can’t hear anything over the blood rushing through his ears, over the words _if I die, you die_. He’s choking on his next inhale, the air exploding inside his throat and he _can’t_ -

“Why?” Why, why, _why_? He’s not dead, but-

She blinks at him and suddenly Malakai is staring at the old man with the battle scars rippling across his dark skin. “Because I am not _stupid_. I know what-“ His voice is rough, dark and pointed and he pauses, straightening out his back and dwarfing Malakai before continuing, “You are with the CME. I _chose_ to save you, I could have let you rot out in the mountains and there’s nothing you could have done about it.”

Malakai never should have risked opening the door. He should have just sat by the dark fireplace and horrible stench of vomit and just waited for his time. He can’t even move now, muscles locking up as he stares up at the _monster_ looming over him.

“Are you-“ There’s a frown, mouth thinning before the monster turns away, gesturing to the room, “Your hands are still messed up, if you want you can see if you can find any beneficial books for that. I-“ A stilted silence, broad shoulders tense before, “My magic doesn’t exactly cooperate with healing so I can’t help with that.”

Dark eyes look over the shoulder to watch Malakai. As if the monster is expecting him to jump at the chance to read through piles and piles of books. As if Malakai even _cares_ about the books to begin with.

Malakai lets his eyes drift away from the old man, taking in the dark expanse of the room, the corner that the monster had abandoned and on the other side of the room there is a fire flickering as it eats away whatever offerings the monster had given it.

When his eyes drift back to the monster he’s staring at the girl again. Not the child, he didn’t think his stomach could handle that, but it’s the other girl. The girl Mihr had found in the snow of some alleyway. It still made his stomach turn, but he was able to swallow the acid down every time it rose.

Really, if he had any doubt before all he’d need is to see that face to know the truth. This monster, this serial killer, this _child killer,_ was Ghost. He knew when he tried to pull the knife out, when the thought of spilling burning hot blood in the cabin was a _possibility_ and not just a delusion. He knew, but he didn’t _know_. It was a suspicion, it was a hunch of things that just couldn’t be a _coincidence,_ but seeing that girl’s face…

That girl’s face sealed the deal. It confirmed the inevitable.

The monster is the ghost of all his victims after all. Every single face was a victim whose life he destroyed and ended. Malakai wasn’t even sure the monster had a face of his own. He doubted it, people like that aren’t really _people_. More like demons or monsters released from Qleehl as she waged her war against the godlings.

There’s a thought tickling in the back of Malakai’s mind. About a life for a life, about what that might entail and-

“I could kill myself.” Wounds seemed to be shared after all, even if their lives _weren’t_. Ghost all but admitted that he couldn’t heal himself even if he was injured. If-

If Malakai actually _killed_ himself, the monster would die with him. They would both die in the middle of the monster filled mountains. They’d both die and the serial killer could no longer terrorize the rest of the kingdom. It would be for the best really. If they died.

But-

“You won’t. You have something to live for don’t you? I can tell, I’m really good at reading people.” The monster turned around, walking straight up to Malakai and staring at him with eyes that weren’t her own.

Malakai never noticed the girl’s eyes color before, her eyes were closed when they found her. They’re green. Like the fat man’s. Like the child’s. A different green, a sharp, bright green, but still _green_. The killer seemed to have an obsession with that color if her victims had anything to say about it. The eye color was too rare for it to be a mere coincidence.

She cocks her head to the side, “Go sit by the fire if you aren’t willing to do anything else. I don’t have enough to supply two fires even if my time here is less than originally planned.” She takes a step back, gesturing with one arm towards the fire as if that’s suddenly going to make Malakai tear his boots off of the frozen floor.

The ice shatters around Malakai’s legs as he takes a step forward. He obeys, mind still dripping with thoughts. The door softly shuts behind him and seals his fate. His second chance, tied to a serial killer and gifted with the ability to rid the world of one monster anytime he decides to take the task upon himself.

He sits by the fire, back towards the killer and he cowers.

He wishes he had died in the forest. Never to have this chance, this _choice_ to make because Malakai knows himself. He knows himself and despite what he _knows_ is better he-

His hands shake, shoulders folding into themselves and he soaks in the warmth of the fire.

The killer sits behind him, reading his books about whatever and surrounded by candles. The knife burns Malakai’s hip, but he hasn’t dared to touch it since the first time he tried to grab for it.

Acid still burns his throat, still coats his unfeeling hand and the stench is still _there_. An ever present reminder of everything so he can’t even close his eyes and pretend. So he just sits there, same position, different spot, different fire.

He sits and waits.

The only sound is the turning of pages and the roaring of the fire. If Malakai focuses he can hear the soft breathing of the monster. He tries not to focus.

There’s footsteps, the door opening and closing and then silence. A drenching kind of silence and the room is suddenly so much bigger than it was before. It’s not so suffocating, the weight on Malakai’s shoulders all but vanishing with the monster.

He waits, counting his own breaths before he dares to move.

Curiosity has him, prickling at his brain and tugging at his feet. Why would someone need so many books? Need to be reading through _so many_ books? Ghost had piles and piles open by the candles and Malakai just couldn’t resist the temptation to peek at them.

Maybe he’d see something useful.

Maybe he’d see nonsense.

It’s-

He doesn’t even know what exactly he’s looking at. Different languages sprawled out right in front of him, some have pictures, others diagrams. There’s a selection that he _can_ read and their focus is more on the godlings. On Death and Qleehl, on the spirits of the dead roaming the kingdom.

He reaches out to pick one up before he can stop himself. Skimming through the words, the _ceremony_ because that’s what it is. It’s instructions on raising the dead. He reads through another that depicts ways to summon souls, to talk to them, to _control_ them.

There’s another one, tucked underneath another pile that’s open. The thing that caught his eye was the word _bond_ in bold letters. Nudging the other books out of the way Malakai picks up the book. It’s ancient, the pages golden and torn and nicked with the writing faded and missing in some spots. It’s hard to get a grip on the pages, fingers shaking too much for a proper grasp and the pages too thin and old for him to just slide through them without fear of tearing.

It was a book on bonds, or at least that chapter was. Malakai flipped through the pages, skimming through the words he _could_ read. It’s a ceremony, some old marriage ceremony people would do in front of Liphe. Blood offerings and oath swearing and-

The door opens and Malakai freezes. He doesn’t even dare to lookup, to see the monster and his hands tremble on the book he’s holding.

“What are you doing.” It’s the old man’s harsh voice again, spitting out the words as if they were rotten. Footsteps storming closer, growing lighter with every step and when Malakai does look up he’s seeing the bloody eyes of a demon. “Don’t- Don’t _touch_ those.”

In any other scenario Malakai would be sorely reminded of a child. With the pouting and petulant voice and the wide, wide eyes. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was staring up at the face of someone who was already _dead_ he’d probably laugh. Instead his muscles lock up and he’s unable to look away from the crimson eyes.

He’d have probably dropped the book if his hands were functioning instead of being the stiff, frozen hunk of flesh that they were.

Ghost reaches out, yanking the book out of Malakai’s hands before quickly fretting over the other books, snapping out, “You could have ruined- What if- _Don’t_ touch _my_ \- If you were bored-“ He’s whirling around, white hair swinging through the air as the monster turned to stare up at Malakai, “You can read any other book in here, but _those_ are off limits. Don’t, don’t _touch them_.”

His face changes as he speaks, scars popping up before vanishing, eyes changing to a dark blue then swinging to green before sticking to the bloody mess they started off as. Malakai swallows, hands falling to his side as he watches the monster.

“What,” Malakai’s throat is horribly dry, the words scraping along like sandpaper, “what are those for?” Books on death and resurrection and ghosts. It could be something _awful_. Something horrifying. It could-

Ghost pauses, taking a breath before suddenly he’s the child again. She looks lost, wide green eyes and her voice is soft and gentle as she says, “I’m fixing my mistake.”


	10. Cursed Futures

Odaix stares at the letter in her hands. Orders, really. Orders in fancy lettering with a fancy signature at the bottom to make it official. A _congratulations! You survived training, here’s your mentor for the next two years!_ She doesn’t want a mentor, or, at least, not _this_ mentor. All it is, is a name. Mihr. No last name. No middle name. Not even a rank.

Not that he’d need a rank. Mihr was a synonym to Death. Some wild child that got drafted into the CME and then trampled over everyone on his rise to the top. Why they’d pair her with him made no sense. Odaix was middle level at best. She passed her tests, knew the procedures, knew the hows and whens; but she was nowhere near Mihr’s level.

Maybe he was the only one with black magic available? Or…

She doesn’t know. She couldn’t even _guess_. It made no sense. The words on the letter jumble together and mix around and speak pure gibberish. The words say that she is to head to the Heisenworth Hospital. The hospital is another curious location, it wasn’t even one of the CME’s hospitals. Just some big human hospital up in the north.

One of the best, according to the newspapers as it has the best medical practitioners and only took those without the disease in both clients and doctors. They didn’t even hire leeches since they pride themselves on how little magic actually rests inside the hospital. Weird that they’d let a nephlim in now.

Inside of the hospital is nice and clean. The floors and walls are caked in this off white color with light blue chairs strewn about in a corner of the room. At the end of the hall is this grand desk, wooden and polished. It’s all smooth and professional looking, like something a rich man would have.

There’s a receptionist sitting at the desk, stacks of papers piled high around her. She’s pretty, in a severe, sharp manner. Her brown hair in a tight bun and makeup in a strict line and made up of natural colors. Not like Odaix, with freckles and hair dyed an off putting orange color and heterochromia.

“Uh, excuse me.” She quickly makes her way to the desk, boots clicking onto the tiled floor with every step. Odaix cringes at the echo that follows her, a sharp ticking noise that just gets worse the more it echoes.

The receptionist looks up, pale eyes blinking before, “Hello. What are you here for? Do you have an appointment?” Even her voice is sharp, professional. Maybe it was something she gained with age, but Odaix could never even dream of mimicking the woman. Instead she squeaks out,

“No! Uh, well, yes? Maybe? I’m here to meet a…” Odaix grabs the briefcase slung over her shoulder, rushing to unzip and dig through just to find the bloody letter that she had in her hand _a minute ago_. She knew she shouldn’t have put it away. “I had it just a minute ago, just, just-“

“Are you the girl from the CME?” The receptionist is a life saver. Odaix jerks forward, giving a strong nod and quickly spouting off,

“Yes! Yes, I’m with the CME. I’m here for… Mihr?” Odaix offers her best smile. The receptionist just stares at her with a blank look. The lady drops her gaze, neatly picking up a folder before handing it over to Odaix.

“You’ll need to sign on the dotted line agreeing that he is released from our custody and any further treatment will need to be transferred to another hospital. And…” She flipped open the folder, nudging two sheets of paper towards Odaix and taps the one on the left. “this is saying that the CME will send a leech at no extra charge if we find ourselves with a breakout of the nephlim plague after your visit.”

“Er, yes. Of course.” Odaix scrambles through the briefcase, trying to see if a pen was anywhere amongst the mess. When she came up empty handed she sends an abashed grin at the receptionist. “Do you…you have a spare pen I could borrow?”

The receptionist is already holding a pen with a huge feather tied to it with rope. “Thanks. I’m usually not like this. Promise. Uhm…” Odaix skims over the paper, the pen spreading black pools around the thin line with _sign here_ underneath it in cursive. “I don’t know if I’m the one that should be signing this? I’m not exactly... I’m kind of new to the CME.”

“It’s procedure. We just need a signature acknowledging someone was here from the CME.” The receptionist taps the paper again and Odaix dutifully signs it, mumbling a “ _If you’re sure…”_ as she scribbled her name across the paper.

The receptionist gives a stilted smile before sliding the folder close, adding it to one of the many stacks around her and gesturing to a clipboard. “If you could, sign your name on the clipboard stating date, time, reason, who you are visiting and what room they are in. The room will be 483, fourth floor and you will be taking a right. Patient is under the name Mahsi Kannon.”

Odaix nods, writing down the words in the designated spot. She pauses once she gets to the name, “Mossy Cannon? I don’t- I’m here for a Mihr, not… Why would he be under that name?” What if this wasn’t the right person and she just signed the papers for some stranger? Or-

“We use the name on the birth certificate, not whatever pseudonym they come up with later in life. M-A-H-S-I,” The receptionist pauses waiting for Odaix’s hand to still before she continues, “K-A-N-N-O-N. Do you remember where the room was?”

“Er…” Odaix slides the pen closer to the receptionist before cringing, “I think the… third floor? To the right? Three eighty something?”

“483. Fourth floor, to the right. The stairs are to your left. Have a nice day.” The receptionist snatches back the pen, dropping it into a glass jar before looking back down at one of the folders opened before her. An obvious dismissal if Odaix ever saw one.

“Same to you.” Odaix is fairly certain the receptionist wasn’t even listening anymore. She scoops up her briefcase and heads up the stairs; mumbling _483, 483, to the right, 483_ under her breath.

The fourth floor was a single hallway. Right next to the door to the stairs is this bright blue sign saying that rooms 450 to 499 was to the right and everything below 450 was to the left. Rather simple and easy to follow even if Odaix hadn’t been repeating _to the right_ in her head like a broken record.

The room’s door is open, a small boy standing next to the empty bed. The boy is in a dressing gown, tubes connecting him to a group of bags dangling by a silver cane. She knocks softly on the wooden part of the door, clearing her throat before saying, “Um, excuse me. Are you… Mihr?”

The boy turns around, wide eyes set deep into his pale, hollow face. He stares at her for a second before tugging at the thin tubes around his nose. He’s a skinny thing, if he was Mihr, skinny and so, so small. Odaix honestly couldn’t see an officer in that small frame. If anything, he seemed like some doll with his pale skin, pink eyes, and styled brown hair.

Odaix just stands there, shifting on her feet as she waits. She refused to take a step into the room before confirmation that this _was_ the right room. There was always a chance she was horribly wrong or misremembered the room number or that the receptionist just set her up for failure. All sorts of reasons for this to be some stranger and _not_ Mihr.

The boy looks up, a frown on his thin lips before he speaks in the softest voice, “Yes, I am Mihr. Are you going to keep lurking outside the door like a creeper?”

Odaix blinks, startled at the soft voice before sputtering out, “Uh- yeah. Sure. I’m sorry? Did it come across creepy? I wasn’t sure if- Uhm.” She licks her lips, taking a step towards the boy before holding out her hand and saying, “I’m Odaix. Black magic, type possessor.”

Mihr’s eyes flicker to her hand before he raises one tiny, frail hand to grasp hers. His hand is cold, as if he was stuck in a freezer all day. “Mihr. White magic, type healer.”

Odaix takes a pause, squinting her eyes because- “And you’re in the… officer side of things? Shouldn’t you be a doctor?” That is one question, and then there is always the other one swirling in her head, such as _why was she working with a white magic nephlim?_ Of all things, why would the CME pair opposing magics?

Mihr spares her a smile before saying, “Doctors kill people all the time too.” He drops her hand, going back to detangling himself from the machines in the room.

Odaix opens her mouth, words floating at the tip of her tongue before she swallows them down. _Doctors don’t do it on purpose though_. What a way to say the obvious. It’s not even the most pressing thought in her mind. She can still feel the phantom nausea and pain creeping up the back of her head. White magic was never a good thing, not for her.

“Why am I… why were we partnered together?” Mihr looks over at her as he plucks out the IV attached to his arm. He’s so… delicate looking. Arms like twigs and his fingers are long and skinny. He offers a shrug to her question before saying,

“Above my pay grade. Did they give you that briefcase?” He motions towards the case still clutched in Odaix’s hand. She’s quick to nod, pushing it towards his empty hand when he wiggles his fingers. “Have you looked through it at all?”

“Kind of? I mean, not exactly? I’m not- they didn’t really tell me anything other than it was yours and I didn’t want to disrespect your privacy but… I looked for a pen? And I don’t really have any pockets so I put my orders in there too, I think? Is that-“

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not actually mine.” Mihr doesn’t even bother to look up at Odaix, interrupting her babbling with his monotone voice. He opens up the briefcase on the bed, flipping through each piece of paper. He pauses at one, his lips in a tight frown before he holds it out for Odaix. “I believe this is yours.”

It is, it’s the letter she was holding before she entered the hospital. The one saying Mihr was her mentor. Or, well she guesses the name would be Mahsi Kannon and not Mihr. The paper still says Mihr though, so maybe the hospital was a bit wrong on who they were treating. Maybe Mahsi was a cover name, something registered as a human so that the _no nephlim_ rules wouldn’t apply.

But then, why would they need the paperwork for the leech cost? Or was it because _Odaix_ was there? Then again, they were expecting the CME so they _had_ to have known. But-

“We have a job.” Mihr’s voice is loud in the silent room. Odaix jumps, gaze leaving the paper to stare at the small frame. He’s sliding on a large fur coat that was sitting on the bed earlier, slender fingers doing up the buttons as he spoke.

“What-“

“Close by too.” Mihr picks up one of the folders in the case, carelessly flipping through the paper. “Local police found him. They managed to knock him out, so he’s just sitting somewhere for us. What kind of training did you get?”

“Officer. The same one you went through.” Odaix walks into the room, trying to take a peek at the papers in Mihr’s hands. Mihr gives a hum, pausing on one paper before saying,

“That designation letter of yours said I was to be your mentor didn’t it?” It’s a rhetorical question, Mihr only pauses enough for Odaix to think of a response before chopping it all to pieces. “If I told you to deal with him,” He taps the paper once. “would you be able to do it?”

Odaix stares at the upside down words for a second before she brings her gaze up to stare at Mihr. He doesn’t even look at her, eyes flickering from side to side as he read the page. “Our job is to restrain and eliminate nephlim threats. We would… take him to prison. The nephlim prison.”

“I don’t know what kind of prison they taught you about, but there’s no prison that lets nephlim inmates in.” Mihr still doesn’t even look up. It’s like he’s talking to air the entire time, making comments aloud to himself.

“There is one! It’s experimental but-“

“Our suspect is a rapist. They only send the minor, harmless nephlims there. This guy,” Another tap on the piece of paper. “is a black magic who manipulates the earth. Not very harmless is he?”

“That-“ Odaix freezes, the words turning sour in her mouth before she swallows them back down. During the training period they never really focused on _what_ you do once the nephlim is caught and restrained. They focused on the how to catch one, how not to get harmed yourself, procedures to go through. Once you got the nephlim they simply said, _eliminate_ or _prison_ and then they’d drop it.

Odaix always figured it meant prison would be the option. It was all over the newspapers, the newest prison that’s specialized _for_ nephlim criminals. Elimination was supposed to be a last resort, when no other option was available. Not whatever Mihr was suggesting.

“Wouldn’t that be what the CME decides? We’d be picking him up and bringing him in. We have to charge him and-“

Mihr drops the paper he was reading into her hands. He taps on the words at the bottom and reads, “Guilty. Sentenced to die.” The letters are large and formal. Overly strict and jet back with red boxes around them. Odaix pinches her lips together, sucking in the words that swirled around her mouth.

Mihr waits a second or two before he turns around and shuts the briefcase splayed out on the bed.

“Let’s go.” And he’s out, leaving Odaix to scramble behind him.

“What do you mean _let’s go_? Isn’t there-“

He cuts her off again with a snapped, “I mean just that. _I am **leaving**_.” He has the briefcase clutched in one hand as he determinedly marches towards the stairs. Even with his head start Odaix was quickly able to keep pace with the boy. His small legs could only carry him so far, and even though Odaix herself was rather short he was downright _puny_.

“Do we need to check out? Or, are we going to the police? Do the police even have this…” She squints at the paper she’s holding trying to catch the culprit’s name, “Jaquin Atiqe? This was from days ago! If he’s so dangerous wouldn’t the police have lost him by now?”

Mihr gives a noncommittal hum before, “You ask too many questions.”

Odaix drowns in her words, biting her cheek to keep them all inside. The only thing she releases is a huff of annoyance, lagging behind the shorter boy. Mihr doesn’t even say anything, just pushes the door to the stairs open and walks down the pristine steps.

She focuses back on the report, skimming through the words and pausing at every other step to reorient herself with where her feet were being placed. It’s-

The entire paper really, it’s _dreadful_. It lists a name, victims, and possible dangers. Listing the strength of magic, how long the power seems to last. It’s all so clinical and technical. As if it wasn’t a person the report was tearing apart.

Jaquin’s crimes were listed in the lower half of the document, names dropped like cookie crumbs before it would skip on to something else. At the bottom of that is another name of the inspector and the witnesses.

It’s… awful. Everything about it read more like a horror story than an actual report. Names were dropped for the victims, but everything focused more on how the man used his magic. How he corrupted the world and bent it to his will.

They’re outside by the time Odaix finishes reading, the cold chill of winter merging with the creeping feeling rippling up Odaix’s spine. Mihr seems unfazed, not even pausing and Odaix can’t just sit in silence and _think_ about the words she just read. It’s nightmare inducing and dark and she just _can’t_.

“Why would-“ She starts, the words bubbling out of her before she can reach out and pull them back into her stomach where they were fluttering about earlier. “His magic- What did they _do_.”

Mihr doesn’t even halter in his steps, small frame hunkering down against the wind as each step forced its way forward.

“What did they _do_? To catch him? What did-“ The report said blood loss made the suspects magic act out. That the earth crumbled underneath the man and _crushed_ him and his victim. It doesn’t say what went off to begin with. Doesn’t say anything about the humans.

The victim died, fourth victim he had and the first victim to die. Her life was lost when the earth crumbled around the man. The report said it was something like a shield being enacted, but it went haywire. The location was never named, the wounds never named. Just the magic and the result.

Mihr said he was knocked out, not that the man was in a coma.

“He’s in a _coma_. Why can’t we-“

“It’s a waste of resources.” Mihr cuts her off in one heartless statement. Odaix chokes on her words. Forcing them down and staring at the paper sentencing the man to die. A horrible man, but a living, breathing human whose in a coma after unknown circumstances and he’s to _die_. To die, not to be put in a prison to spend the rest of his days, but to _die_.

It’d be better if he was conscious and not some crippled body. He was harmless now, paralyzed from the waist down with brain damage according to the report. In a coma for an undetermined amount of time, but he had brain activity. He was…

She didn’t know what he was. What made him human, she didn’t know those details. It wasn’t in the report. In the cold, clinical file depicting a sericla rapist and nothing else. He could have a family, a child. He was the son of a mother, a father. An awful, despicable human, but he was _someone_. He didn’t deserve to be shot like some rabid dog.

The fourth victim didn’t deserve to die either. It wasn’t even a rape according to the report. More of an assault, a robbery. She had a broken foot, but was fine. Would have been _fine,_ but something- something happened and the earth around them broke and sucked them in. They called it quick sand in the report. Quick sand, but with solid rock.

“What about- Isn’t that police brutality? Isn’t that-“ Odaix rushes forward, grabbing at Mihr to get some kind of answer. It’s instantaneous how he jerks away and avoids her touch. He’s spinning on his heel and glaring at her.

“Don’t touch me.” The words are this cold hiss that strangles Odaix’s heart. Her hand hangs in the air, empty, before she snatches it back as if it dared to betray her.

“I’m sorry. But, why would we be killing him? There’s no reason to. He could…”

“He could what? Sit in a human facility for all of his time _radiating_ the plague? Killing everybody else? Is his life worth more than the others? Maybe,” Mihr takes a pause, pale pink eyes staring up at Odaix before he lands the final blow, “if he wasn’t such a _despicable_ human being he wouldn’t be dying in the next hour.”

A pause, a breath and Mihr gives Odaix one last glare before turning and walking away. She stands there, the slicked muddiness of dirty snow under her feet and the air so much colder than it was minutes ago. The document, the godling awful _report_ is crumbled up in her shaking hand and she just stands there. She doesn’t even dare to breathe.

How _could_ someone even-

That was someone, living and breathing and _alive_. Mihr just admitted to homicide without even flinching. He didn’t even hesitate before throwing down the threat, the _promise_.

Odaix stands there, and if she just stayed there in the cold watching Mihr’s figure get smaller and smaller she probably would have lost him. She probably would be left all alone in Heisenworth; left to fend for herself. Would that count as running away? Abandoning her station of duty?

If she just watches and lets Mihr vanish, would that be disobeying the CME? It hasn’t even been a _day_. Well, it has. She left the training command a week ago, but this was the first day of her actually being _active_. It was a day and she’s already frozen in spot, watching her supposed mentor walk away to go commit cold blooded murder.

That’s what it was; the suspect, the _victim_ was in a coma. Defenseless and unarmed, unable to run away or attack and Mihr was just going to stroll up and kill him. Or expect _Odaix_ to do that. As if she could _ever_ do such an atrocity.

That’s what the paper demanded though, what the _CME_ ordered. It’s in bold letters at the bottom of the report with eye catching red entrapping the words. That’s what she was _supposed_ to do. She was supposed to follow Mihr to the police, go to this defenseless man and just…

End his life.

Put a bullet in his head or a knife to his throat.

Sickness crawls under her skin, her stomach rejecting the very thought and her words suddenly disperse as if they never existed to begin with.

Mihr shrinks as he walks even further away. A mere speck in the snowy chaos of the city. Odaix chokes on her bitter tasting misgivings and takes one step forward. The paper stays crumbled in her hand, the atrocities written burning into her skin like a brand.

The second step is easier; heavier, but _easier_. Her feet drag less with every step, the heaviness stays, the dread growing but moving forward becomes easier. All she needs is to keep taking steps, following the footsteps of the much smaller man.

The police department is a few miles away. Her feet sting by the time Mihr turns into one of the buildings; the doors swing behind him and the boy vanishes. Odaix sprints, boot barely touching the muddy snow on the sidewalk as she rushes forward. She couldn’t-

Mihr could easily just get swept up and all she had was a piece of paper on _Jaquin_ to find the senior officer again. Nothing concrete. No name. She didn’t even know what name Mihr was going to be giving the police department. He could Mahsi again, or someone else. He could-

He could-

He was staring at her actually. Pale eyes watching as she storms through the door. He has the briefcase open on the front desk, letting one of the policeman look through some of the folders. Mihr stares for a second before turning his head back towards the officer browsing through the documents.

Odaix’s lungs burn, feet sliding against the slick tile of the office as she scrambles her way towards the desk Mihr was crowding. They aren’t even talking, Odaix’s heaving breaths fill the silence as they skim through the papers. Mihr just stands there, patiently watching and not even nudging the officer to hurry.

When her lungs stop burning Odaix nudges closer to the table, trying to take a peek at the papers. The officer looked up, a scowl on his face as he snapped out, “What are you doing?”

Odaix recoils immediately, eyes wide and a hand in the air as she quickly spouted off the words beginning to bubble in her stomach again, “Sorry! I’m with- This is my case too and-“ She gestures frantically to Mihr who apparently takes some pity on her. The paper crumples further in her tight grasp.

“She’s with me for the Jaquin case.”

The officer still frowns, snapping the folder closed that he was holding, “That wasn’t the Jaquin case.”

“It’s another case. The thief hit a town close by so I was going to get the information needed to fill in the blanks.” Mihr even offers this small little smile, his voice perfectly polite. Chills crept up Odaix’s back and she forces herself to nod when the officer’s eyes skate over to her.

Another case? She hadn’t heard of any such thing. She didn’t even know where _Jaquin’s_ case came from. The briefcase, obviously, but she didn’t know when Mihr was assigned it or who ordered it. It made her itch to browse through the briefcase he held by his skinny fingers.

The officer’s gaze is back on Mihr as he addresses the smaller boy, “We don’t have much on the actual incident. The owner didn’t want to file a report. He was scared of what it might mean for the thief.”

“All information would be greatly appreciated. If you could, lead us to Jaquin’s room and I will pick up all of the paperwork when we leave.” Mihr reaches for the folder that after a moment’s hesitation, the officer released the folder for Mihr’s fragile fingers to grab.

“He’s in a secure room so we will need to confiscate all your personal belonging during the duration of the visit. You are here as a healer to be able to question him in the future correct?” The man doesn’t even wait for Mihr’s response before he’s digging in one of the drawers for a form of some kind. He shoots a wary glance over at Odaix and adds, “Security says we can only let one person in the room at a time.”

“She’s with me to supply her magic whilst I heal the patient’s brain.” Mihr offers another smile, response curt and to the point. The officer looks like he’s going to argue before swallowing down the words and instead sliding the form in front of Mihr and pointing at certain parts.

“Sign here and here. This is to claim that the Heisenworth Police will not be held responsible if anything goes wrong with the healing process and that the CME claim full responsibility. This is saying that we are not held responsible if the patient acts out in aggression once he’s healed and that the Heisenworth Police are actually _against_ this entire procedure.”

Mihr gifts a sardonic chuckle, signing the spots indicated before looking back up at the officer, “The CME will take all responsibility for Jaquin. Is there anything else?”

The officer takes the form, skimming over everything before sliding it over to the side of the desk. He grabs a bin and orders, “All personal belongings here and if you give me a minute I will escort you to the room.”

Odaix doesn’t actually have anything to drop in the bin, offering a timid smile as she waves the bin away. Mihr only puts the briefcase in the bin. The officer squints at them before taking the bin and putting it next to the form. He holds up a finger before ducking around a corner in the office.

Odaix bites her lip, staring at Mihr with words bubbling and bubbling inside her stomach. Questions swirling in her mind about the _other_ case, about why he said he was a healer after all but admitting that Jaquin was a dead man walking. Or sleeping seeing as he was in a coma. Why he said she was _supplier of magic_. How would that even work? She only knew of leeches being able to use other’s magics, not _healers_.

Mihr only spares her a glance, this cold withering one that lasts all of a second before he’s back to this softly smiling persona he showed off to the officer. Nothing threatening, he’s all soft and pretty with his pale colors and small frame. He’s delicate is what he is, wrapped up in a large fur coat with baggy pants.

The officer doesn’t take that long, holding jangling keys as he walks around the desk. “Follow me.”

Mihr doesn’t even hesitate, falling into step behind the officer as Odaix takes a halting step forward. She gives a brief glance at the briefcase before following the other two. The officer is already talking, his voice loud and echoing in the halls.

“Why would the CME try to resuscitate a criminal? I thought you guys were more heartless than that. That’s what the rumors are anyways.”

“Bad reputation from an age when healers weren’t as good as they are now. Not enough knowledge to fix things, so whenever we tried things would go sour.” Mihr still sounds polite, even chipper.

“So what, you’re some amazing healer? That can heal a broken mind?” The officer scoffs, “Must be nice to think that.”

“Something like that.” Mihr says it like it is a secret. As if he knows something no one else in the room does. Odaix has an itch she knows what the secret is. This uncomfortable knowing _itch_. Her stomach drops, sourness and bile rising as she takes every step closer to their destination.

She remembers _doctors kill people too_.

It’s not a good thing to remember as she heads to Jaquin’s room. She has a thought, for a split second that she was wrong when they asked for a _healer_. Mihr didn’t even have a weapon on him, he was relatively harmless really. There was-

It was a thought that just kept crawling up her spine. Something cold and awful, its fingers tickling across her skin.

“Here we go.” The officer stuffs a key into a lock, turning and then the door slides open. “It’s the one at the end of the hall. We had to seclude him since he’s a nephlim. Couldn’t risk anyone dying on us for him.”

Mihr gives a hum, “Makes sense. It won’t be long.”

The officer quirked a brow before saying, “Take however long you need. Wouldn’t want to make a rush out of a delicate job.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” Mihr flashes another smile, stepping into the hallway and heading to the room designated as Jaquin. Odaix pauses at the mouth of the hallway; the officer gives her a frown and-

It’d be so easy to just say something. To do _something_. It’s- Something bad was going to happen. The atrocity written on the report was going to happen right in front of her and she could say something. Tell the officer that this was a mistake. That everything was a lie and that Jaquin was not going to be healed.

She could show the officer the crumpled piece of paper in her hand with the red letters dictating death.

She could be wrong.

Mihr could be a healer with some dark sense of humor. She could have misunderstood what the orders said.

She could be wrong.

Odaix takes a step forward, away from the officer and follows Mihr, not a word escaping her. Her throat is constricted, not even allowing air to be pulled in and she she just walks in after Mihr.

The officer shuts the door behind her and just like that, her fate is sealed with the click of a door.

Air eludes her every step.

Her stomach burns as if acid is being dribbled into it.

She could be wrong.

The chill that consumes her spine says she isn’t.

The walk lasts hours. It lasts seconds. It lasts… an eternity. Odaix doesn’t even see Mihr open the door to Jaquin’s room. The hallway is short, but her heart keeps beating in her ears and Mihr keeps walking and walking. It was like the door never came closer until it was too late. Until they were both already in the cell Jaquin was shoved in.

The hospital was white and clean. Jaquin’s cell is gray and moldy. Tiny with tiles misplaced everywhere. It seems darker almost, from everywhere else in the building. Darker and colder, and Odaix could almost _feel_ a breeze that couldn’t possibly exist.

The acid drips down, burning more and more with every step Mihr takes to the center of the room. To the cold cot with white sheets and a small screen next to it displaying a little green line.

There’s a startling beep, loud and echoing and all the breath leaves Odaix the second she hears it.

Mihr stops at the head of the bed, cocking his head to the side.

“What- what are we here for?” Odaix finds the words under the acid. Little holes ripped into each one but still intact and a whole.

“You read the report. Jaquin here is found guilty of rape and assault on four persons using the plague to his advantage.” Mihr isn’t even smiling, his voice no longer sugary sweet and instead cold like ice.

Odaix chokes, a glance back to the door- to her _chance_. She could be wrong.

Mihr reaches out.

The machine beeps, the green line darting up, then back down. Then up, down.

Mihr’s hand touches the man’s forehead. He brushes hair away from the pale forehead before dropping his hand. “Brains are… difficult. Not many people can work with them. It’s like…” There’s a humming noise before Mihr tacks on, “if someone were to get cut in half. They would die. No matter what kind of healer they have. If someone got shot in the head, they would die. Magic can only do so much.”

Mihr glances up, pale eyes staring right into Odaix’s soul. “Does that mean- He’d never wake up? Even with magic?” She could be wrong.

The machine beeps.

The man’s chest rises and falls.

“It means that despite our best efforts, his brain melted itself.” Mihr taps at the man’s skull and then takes a step back.

The machine beeps.

The line falls.

The man makes one gasping noise and Odaix thinks, maybe, _maybe-_

There’s silence, suffocating silence. No green line on the screen anymore, instead it merges with the black. The man’s chest doesn’t even move. Mihr watches with uncaring eyes and Odaix-

Mihr was a healer.

 _Doctors kill people too_.

Mihr was a _healer_.

The machine makes this horrifying sound, like a screech. It’s like a soul is being ripped away from its home. A death that arrives too early.

Footsteps are racing into the hallway, voices shouting _code red, code red_.

Mihr _was a healer_.

The second they barge in Mihr acts out, a flurry of hands and he’s looking up with this stricken face. “The magic was too much. His brain _melted_ once I tried-“

His nickname was Death.

They ignore him, yelling orders, but it’s too late. It’s too _late_.

Odaix can’t breathe, oxygen turning into the very acid that burned away her insides with every step.

She could be _wrong_.

She wasn’t.


	11. Honest Lies

**_Erica,_ **

**_I think, if you saw me right now, you’d be disappointed._ **

**_I joined the CME to save people and here I am, with the ability to kill a disgusting serial killer and… I can’t. I can’t do it. If I do, I’d die and that… that terrifies me._ **

**_I could say I’m not doing it because I don’t want to leave you alone. Because I don’t want our child to grow up fatherless but… I’d be lying. Not fully, but I would be. I just… Right now I’m alive and I fear, if what that monster said was true, if I act I’d die._ **

**_To be honest, there’s a part of me that doubts I’d be able to kill him anyways; even without this stupid curse. I’ve never been forced to, never had to. I’m a tracker, my job is to watch from the sidelines._ **

**_My hands were never to be bloody._ **

**_Suddenly, I can make them bloody. I suddenly have this power and…_ **

**_I can’t do it._ **

**_I’m sorry._ **

———————————————

———————————————

———————————————

Ghost sits for hours with his books. Occasionally, he moves in this rush of movement. Sometimes he even hums. He’s the white haired lad now, demon eyes trained on whatever gibberish he read from. Malakai doesn’t think the monster left his corner for hours, days, _weeks._

That’s a lie. If it had been weeks Malakai would have been a skeleton by now. It probably hasn’t even been a day, but all he has to tell the time is whenever the monster decided he was hungry enough to go to the kitchen to fetch food.

He hasn’t. Not since the incident. The sweet tasting magic crawls against the back of Malakai’s neck. As if the magic could check and make sure Malakai wouldn’t dare touch _those books_. Malakai didn’t dare to touch any of the books.

Not yet, not with Ghost hovering in his corner and so oddly possessive.

Instead Malakai cowers in front of the fire willing his mind to freeze once again.

He left the blanket outside with the vomit and the satchel of water. Shivers wrack his body whenever he starts to melt into the fire’s warmth and his throat reminds him of his thirst after every dry swallow. He could-

He could get up.

Go back into the living room.

Get away from the monster with his books.

He could _leave_. Maybe, _maybe._ Would the monster even let him? If their lives are tied, would the monster even let him leave? It was a risk, a chance that Ghost seemed determined wouldn’t bite him in the ass. There had to be a reason, some reason.

Maybe it was false.

Maybe it was all a delusion and he was still dying from hypothermia in the Qleehl.

Maybe, maybe he was dead already.

Maybe it was a hallucination just for Malakai to reason his way out of his cowardice for not killing the serial killer. He has the chance, the possibility. Ghost seemed to be unarmed, consumed in his bubble of books and candles. Malakai could-

He could-

The fire burps out smoke into the room promptly derailing any possibilities. It was as if even the cabin worked against Malakai.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, Malakai sits there and stares and waits.

And waits.

The fire burns, Ghost fidgets.

Seconds continue to pass like hours. Hours like days.

His mind spins like a table top. Ice tripping up any stopping motion as his mind struggles to freeze. To cease to be. He doesn’t…

Thinking was awful.

The silence was awful.

It dredged up every thought, every doubt. Laid them all out bare for him to watch.

The fire taunted with its flames, a welcoming warmth saying that all his issues could just burn away. And then Ghost would move. The rustle of pages being turned so faint yet so loud and startling.

Malakai refused to turn and actually _see_ the killer. He just saw the faint shadow that flickers between colors of red and white and brown.

Another page flips.

Feet scuffle up, a gasp echoing in the room and suddenly there’s a flurry of movement. Malakai can’t move a muscle, ice already crawling up his spine as he cowers.

The fire dances, eating away at its offering.

It’s hypnotizing. Something else to stare at and watch as footsteps grew louder; as books were thrown about before a voice is shouting, “Finally, finally, _fucking finally_.” A girl’s voice this time, not the child’s. Malakai can’t help but think of a prone body in snow that bloomed crimson.

He doesn’t turn, he doesn’t dare to look.

The fire still burns, licks of flames reaching out as if they could comfort the frozen body before it.

“We can leave soon.” Her voice is right behind him, ecstatic. Something bright and happy and _dead_. Malakai can’t even flinch, his very bones grinding against each other at even the _thought_. “Did you- Are you-“ The voice drops, the happiness this dim light of what it once was.

She’s moving closer, head cocked to the side and the bloody hair dripping all over the room’s wooden floors. If he looked, he’s sure he’d see that puzzled expression with the wide innocent green eyes. He’d also see the eyes that should be lifeless, the skin that should be frozen and tingeing on blue, the _blood_ that was spilt.

He doesn’t look.

“Is it because of the books? I told you- I _told you_ that you could browse them. Just, not those. I’m…” There’s a pause, this choking silence and Malakai can’t even breathe. His chest shrinking down into itself and she keeps _staring_. The blood keeps dripping onto the floor from her bleeding hair and-

“Are you hungry? Or thirsty? I can- I can…” Her voice is light, forceful. It’s not the same. Nothing is the same and Malakai is only happy that he didn’t know what the girl _actually_ sounded like. He swallows, throat dry as ever and the air scraping across it as if it were glass.

There’s still a knife burning his hip.

If he could-

If he could just _move_. Just _breathe._ He could, he could, _he could-_

She’s getting up, pulling away. The blood stops dripping on the wooden floor; leaving it clean as if it was never tainted by the deceased. The chance, the opportunity _wasted_ but he can’t even-

The first breath is painful, as if his lungs were being pulled apart. His hands shake, shivers consuming him with a vengeance as the footsteps retreat.

Ghost vanishes, a click of the door and Malakai’s body betrays him. It’s unexplainable, how his body betrays him. How it shook and froze. How just waiting felt like he was put out for execution, the axe rising and rising over his head before finally-

It falls.

It misses.

He breathes and his lungs scream.

A coughing fit as his lungs rejected the oxygen, his chest pulled tight as he suffocates. The knife still burned Malakai’s hip, a possibility. An endless possibility.

Ghost was unarmed, _harmless._ Malakai held the power, he…

Didn’t hold the power. His magic wasn’t even his own, a betrayal of his own blood. His own mind turning against him and aiding the monster that had captured him.

He didn’t even know if the monster _was_ unarmed. The books of undead and spirits were only the beginning. There was more, he’s sure of it. More and more in hidden languages that Malakai could never hope to read. He didn’t even know what the monster was capable of. What the plague _allowed_ the monster to do.

That’s an excuse though. Everything was just an excuse.

The fire reached out, as if it could burn away everything that troubled him. As if everything could just turn into ash and be swept away into the wind. Except, there was no wind.

Inside there was no wind and outside there was no wind. Outside not a soul moved. Outside the Qleehl rested with her icy grip reaching for the next warm body to dig into and feast upon.

Inside there was a monster that wore faces that should no longer be moving.

Inside, there was a ghost haunting his every thought.

The door is pushed open, the soft sound echoing like a gun. Malakai’s lungs struggle, gripping the hard won oxygen before accepting their fate and turning frigid and cold with ice. Silence sits in the room before it breaks with one footstep.

Then another,

And another,

And another.

Creeping endlessly closer. Malakai chokes down a breath of air, eyes squeezing shut as his body collapses inwards. The footsteps ring in his ear; an executioner coming closer and closer.

It’s silly, he knows it. Ghost already said she _wouldn’t_. The monster already bound them to one another but it’s there and it’s the only reason he can’t bring himself to grab the hilt of the dagger.

It’s a lie.

He knows it. A comforting, warm lie. Like the fire. Something to comfort and think that there are reasons. There aren’t. Even if there was, he had earlier chances. Other options to take action on that he let flow by him like a river untouched by the Qleelh.

“Here.” The footsteps stop, the voice coming off somewhere to the side. Malakai doesn’t dare to open his eyes. He doesn’t dare to look at the monster with the sour sweet taste of magic wafting off of her. Mihr’s magic would be more palpable now; the rotting preferable to the knowledge of the monster lurking behind the face of the dead.

It’s been a wonder for a while, how she did it. How a nephlim could do such atrocities with only white magic. They even played around with the thought of a hybrid terrorizing the kingdom again. No, that wasn’t it. Couldn’t be it, hybrid magics were unable to stay hidden for long and were easy to dispose of once found. An impossibility playing amongst all of the possibilities.

The books point towards a corrupt knowledge. Creation being twisted into death. Plausible, reasonable.

Monstrous.

Something that made chills ripple down Malakai’s spine.

“It’s food, not anything nice but… And water. I noticed-“ There’s a pause, the voice uncomfortably close and the sound of glass hitting wooden floors. “You don’t- You can read the books. You can. Not _mine_ but the others. There might be-“ She chokes on her own words for a second. Malakai can hear it gurgling in her throat before it escapes, “frostbite. Something on frostbite.”

Malakai can’t open his eyes, his very being too weak for even the simplest movement. There’s pain, as bones clatter together and scrape, muscles tense as he forces the shivering into painful stillness. There’s no sound, no movement. Ghost possibly right behind him, right next to him.

He can’t check, he can’t see.

The dagger burns his hip like the fire burns his hands.

“We’ll leave tomorrow. I- I found something. So we’ll be leaving. You should sleep. You haven’t slept yet and-“ There’s a pause, the silence thick around them and pressing up against Malakai’s skin. “You should sleep.”

It’s a demand. Like everything else has been a demand. Like eating and drinking and moving has been a _demand._ It feels like acid now, something scorching that eats away at him. Something _wrong_.

It wasn’t like that before, when it was simply a hallucination. When it was his little girl shoving him to warmth and Death’s embrace. Now it was a monster with claws reaching just like the Qleehl. Something sweetly sour to disguise the rot tucked underneath the corrupted white magic.

A footstep, haltering and cautious. It’s like a step that slides, a thought incomplete. Malakai waits, air clogging his throat and his lungs. His skin is too tight, stretching and breaking all over. The shivers rattle his bones, teasing the edges of his restraint as he listens.

Another step, and then another.

Silence.

When he flickers his eyes open again the flame still reaches. A comfort caged by its own frail body.

Malakai swallows the air, doesn’t look away from the tiny flame and reaches to the side. His hands move, for once they listen and they _move_.

He can’t feel the log, not through the frozen rot covering his hands. He imagines he can, the rough texture something he’s felt many times before. He drops the log, again. Like before.

Ghost’s eyes feel like the axe. Dangling the threat right over his neck.

His chest constricts, forcing everything out as he waits and waits.

Silence.

It’s stupid. Everything, it’s _stupid._

He feeds the flame the log. Watches it grow as it consumes the offering. A beast; a monster in its own right in the home of a monster. A comforting one, with warmth and false promises.

Pages rustle in the background, the weight of the axe dropping to the side as Ghost’s eyes drift away.

The thought of sleep is foreign. Dangerous. Dark. He doesn’t know what would, what _could_ happen if he let his mind slip away. It was barely hanging on as it is.

He wasn’t even tired, not really. He wanted to quit; he wanted to give in, but Death’s embrace seems more like a fever dream than anything else now.

He waits for something, he doesn’t know what.

Air scrapes his lungs on every inhale, stomach twisting and twisting into itself. His hands shake as he hovers them above the tiny beast that ate away at the logs. The monster that provided warmth and comfort and a promise of _melting_.

Pages rustle, books move about with thumping sounds and clothes brush across the floor. Malakai can’t help but hear every noise as if it was an airhorn. Something loud and obtrusive against the aching silence that otherwise engulfed them.

He doesn’t look though, not even in his peripherals. He doesn’t dare to stare at the monster with her books and her candles and her dead, dead face.

“Are you scared?” It’s not _her_ voice, instead it sounds world weary and male. Not a voice he had heard before. “My dad said- Not mine, someone else’s but- I don’t think you’re okay.” There’s no footsteps, no axe dangling above Malakai’s head. A page turns and Malakai isn’t even certain he heard the monster talk.

He doesn’t dare look. A new voice, a new face, a new _death_. A killer, he was a killer. Every face confirmed it.

All Malakai had were excuses.

The dagger burns on his hip but he can’t move his hands away from the fire’s warmth. He can only feel the burning in one hand but it helps. Everything about it _helps_.

“He said… he said people fear the unknown. I’m not-“ Another page turns, stops and then it seems to rewind. Or move forward, Malakai can’t tell. Something changes; it isn’t the same fluid sound from before. “Am I unknown? You… there’s food. And water. And you need sleep and- You won’t do anything. I don’t get it.”

There’s silence, not even a page turning or a book being touched. Instead there’s an axe, dangling once again. The monster’s stare burns more than the fire ever could. Malakai’s hands creep closer, as if he could make one burn take away the other.

The color of his hands are disgusting in the fire. Orange mixing in with the black and purple rot. Something repulsive that would never go away. His fingers crack as they clench together like a chicken bone being snapped in half.

“How can I help if I don’t- No one just _does_ this- I, I-“ The monster sounds lost, confused. If Malakai turned around he’d probably see eyes wide open and innocent. Most likely they’d be green, like most of the other eyes. Malakai doesn’t even twitch in the other’s direction.

“I _saved_ you.” Ghost says the words like they mean something. Like what he did was a miracle.

Ghost had caged Malakai though. There was no saving, only capturing a butterfly before ripping off the wings. Malakai was still waiting for his wings to be ripped apart. For his face to join the others.

There’s rustling, not books this time but clothes brushing across the floor and then a footstep.

The fire doesn’t burn enough, it never will. Malakai is an ice statue, frost dotting his skin and ice sticking his bones together. If he was a butterfly he’d be pinned, unable to even flutter a wing. As it was, the axe just hung heavy over his neck, the sharp tip grazing his skin.

The books were of the deceased, of resurrection and talking to the dead and maybe _becoming the dead_. He didn’t read enough, he didn’t know enough. But, but-

The bond. The bond, that may or may not be false. May or may not be one sided, it existed. Ghost said _he’d go home_. A possibility.

Going home could just be Death’s embrace though.

Ghost sits next to him, fat limbs moving in and out of Malakai’s peripherals. Making himself comfortable as if he was going to _stay_.

Malakai didn’t want him to stay. He didn’t want the monster anywhere near him.

If he could move-

The blade burns his hip more than fire ever would. His fingers too melted and rotten to even try to reach for it. An excuse, like everything else. Malakai can’t breathe, the very air a toxic mix of sweet and sour magic and unfiltered _panic_.

Not his panic, when he dares to touch it, it isn’t even _his_ panic. The thoughts a swarming mess he can’t distinguish or pull apart, but it’s there. A rush of flowing water to crash into the ice. Breaking bits and pieces off..

Ghost just breathes these soft, calm breaths. As if he isn’t the one with thoughts running a million miles per second. As if his thoughts weren’t acting like a panicked heart unable to stop beating.

“You can’t die. Because I can’t die. I wanted- You should at least eat or drink something. If you won’t do anything else.” Ghost pauses, a fat arm moving into sight and then the sound of glass scraping across wood. “Do you…”

The arm moves again, out of sight. There’s a shuffle and Malakai can see Ghost’s legs sprawl out before them. There’s a careful distance between them, close enough where Malakai can _feel_ the monster’s presence but not where they would touch.

“The dad, he liked to tell stories. Grand stories. He said… he said it made people feel better. Or, me? Or… someone else. He made his kids feel better with them.” Ghost pauses, giving a hum. The foot moves, cocking to the side.

“He said, after a bad day it was always nice to hear that other people have bad days too. And that they overcome it because eventually you’ll overcome it too.” The axe tickles the back of Malakai’s neck, like it’s a tease. Another possibility amongst the possibilities and impossibilities.

“So, you shouldn’t-“ The legs pull back, the shadow looming forward and Malakai forces himself to turn further away. To erase the shadow from his vision entirely. The flame tickles the side of his eye, reaching with promises as Malakai’s hands melt into the fire.

“There was this man. A happy man. He had… a person. A special person. And she got sick. This horrible sickness and... she died. She died and he died with her but he still lived. He still lived and breathed and- He lived. And he didn’t want to because she was dead. So he went to some lake and he asked for help and…”

The voice is soft, mellow and sad. Like tears would be shed if the monster could cry. “He got helped. He was saved, and… He had a bakery. This quiet little bakery that flourished. She was still dead, but he lived. He had a terrible day- a terrible _week_ but…” The pause suffocates as Ghost’s voice drops and vanishes. As if he couldn’t bring himself to finish the stupid story.

“He lived. And he became happy and, and- he _lived_. If he- You should be able to, too. You had, what a bad week? He had one that was worse and _he_ was able to do it. So, you should eat. And not quit and…” Ghost’s voice is stubborn, stiff and solid.

“I’m not unknown. I’m not-“ There’s shuffling and suddenly there is a face staring up at Malakai. Wide green eyes with fat cheeks and dark skin. Different from the other dead faces.“You shouldn’t be scared, if you are. Nothing is going to happen. I just- Everything is going to be okay.”

The pinned butterfly wings flutter, Malakai flinching back and taking his rotten hands away from the burning warmth of the fire. Away from the axe and the monster that would pluck off his wings and leave him out to die. Away from the burning dagger on his hip and the fact that he still can’t grab it.

His hands can’t even flinch in that direction, whenever they do he remembers his magic in the air _healing_ the monster. A betrayal of the worst kind; how could he be expected to trust his own hands when his own mind would betray him?

He doesn’t even know if he could hold the hilt of the blade. The pencil he used always slipped out of his hand when he wrote letters that would never be read. The logs he fed the fire always fell. The blade would surely tumble out of his grasp and clatter onto the floor and then Malakai would be defenseless and-

It’s an excuse. Everything is an excuse because-

The books. The books of death and the faces and the white magic that suffocates the very air he breathes. How could he be expected to function? How could he?

“That’s- That’s stupid.” The story, the words, the fact that the monster seemed to be trying to comfort Malakai. All of it was stupid. The words were hoarse, something ripping out of his chest without even a thought.

His throat collapses into itself as he waits.

The monster blinks, blinks and then gives this horrible smile. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

Ghost ducks away, back to whatever sprawled position he was in originally. Malakai doesn’t dare to look and check; instead he just stares at the small flame eating the log and pretends he doesn’t see the fidgeting shadow out of the side of his eye.

“We’re going to be stuck together for a bit. It’s- I’m, _we_ are going to be going to the capitol. Or, somewhere nearby. Maybe a research facility first? We are going to need a map for it too. But, we’ll be stuck together, so we should get to know each other. Or…” There’s a foot sneaking horribly close to Malakai. He watches as it cocks to the side, brushing against his pants.

Malakai forces his leg closer to chest. Further away from the monster and his touch. Ghost pauses before sliding his foot closer to the fire and away from Malakai.

“So, what’s your name?” The monster’s voice shifts mid question, turning softer and lower. A melody being sung rather than an old man’s sorrows being told. The leg is smaller, her clothing drowning the smaller limb.

He tries not to look, he tries and tries but his body betrays him. Everything breaks like an icicle being snapped as his head jerks up and he stares at her. A new face watched him, wisps of black hair crowning the dark skinned face. Brown eyes large and consuming most of her wrinkled face.

He knew her too, an older lady. Her husband had reported her missing and then _they_ found the body. Malakai had gone to the funeral, dressed up in black as he watched a stranger be mummified so she could become one with the godlings.

She didn’t look the same. The monster got bits and pieces wrong, Malakai had stared at her face long enough at the funeral to notice the minute changes. The nose was too small, upturned at the wrong angle and her jawbone was too broad. Barely noticeable but she was the first victim Malakai had seen of Ghost’s and Malakai _knew_ that face.

It’s even more sickening than the other girl. Than the child with the bleeding hair.

He didn’t have to see a child cry for either of them. He didn’t have to see an entire family break apart as they put a mother to her final resting place.

Acid burns the back of his throat and he tastes the distinct copper flavor of blood as he bites down on his tongue. Malakai doesn’t dare to say a word, his throat a mess of broken ice shards digging into the soft, tender flesh. He can’t breathe, can’t even think of forcing his lungs to expand in his chest.

She blinks at him, Nia was her name when she was still living, before the smile drops. She looks away, brown eyes no longer watching Malakai and she says, “I’ll call you Midnight. You… you look like a Midnight. With the black hair and the skin. I used to-“ Her face twists into something mutilated before flattening out again. Brown eyes flicker up and the monster continues in her voice,

“I had a cat. Called Midnight, black, gorgeous little thing. He had to- black magic didn’t agree with him. He didn’t have any scars though. You- your face-“ She pauses, lips flattened into a thin line before she jerks her head up. Brown eyes stare straight at Malakai, lower on his face to the mauled skin he’s had since he was young.

It’s a stare he’s used to, morbid fascination at the way the skin breaks around his cheek, pulling up at his lips as if string was attached. Usually, people either stared directly at it or avoided looking at him entirely. Ghost was one of the former, her gaze snagging on the scar tissue.

“It doesn’t match Midnight at all, but-“ Her eyes drift away after a pause and then she chirps out, “It’s okay. Because you aren’t _actually_ Midnight. If you told me a name, it’d be easier.”

Malakai just stares at Nia’s face. Any words he had were already mixed up with all of the bile rising up in his throat. His mouth is full of blood, teeth clamped tightly around his tongue. The pain is shocking, like the ice that shatters around his body; the shards digging into his fragile skin.

“It’s okay if you don’t though. It can just be… Midnight and- what does the media call me? Ghost? Midnight and Ghost against the world. That sounds pretty…” Her face changes, morphing back to the child with the bleeding hair as she talks. Dark green takes over the honey brown and baby fat develops on her cheeks. “ Awesome, doesn’t it?””

“I’ve always wanted to be in that kind of story. With the heroes against the world. I-“ She stops, clambers onto her feet with her gaze fixed on the fire.

Before, Malakai didn’t want to watch. Now he can’t help but stare at the monster in a child’s body. Ghost doesn’t even pause at all the clothes that drowned her and dragged on the wooden floor. A shirt too big touching what should be her knees. A necklace with fat chains dropping past her rib cage before ending in a golden skull.

“Sleep is good. Dreaming is- And you still haven’t eaten. I-“ She’s turning, eyes locking into Malakai’s face for a second before she skitters away. “I’ll leave okay? And you can… not be scared. Because the unknown part won’t be here, right?”

Words still choke Malakai, clogging his throat and mixing with the acid and the blood. He swallows the awful mixture; his throat burns as it dips into every open wound and crevice left from the ice.

Ghost doesn’t wait for him to say anything, she’s already walking back to her corner. He watches as she closes books, stacking them to the side before leaning over and blowing out the candle. She’s soft, quiet. Nothing like a child would be.

Ghost wasn’t a child though. Ghost was some monster that just killed a child. It doesn’t fit; the child’s body didn’t fit anything that she did. Children wouldn’t quietly pick up books and blow out candles. Children wouldn’t give soft smiles before ducking out of a room and shouting out, “Go to bed! I’ll be back in the morning so that we can leave.”

Children didn’t do that.

Ghost wasn’t a child, so of course she didn’t act like one. She wasn’t Nia either. She wasn’t a mother or a wife. She wasn’t someone’s daughter. She wasn’t anything she appeared to be.

He knew that.

It didn’t make seeing the faces any easier though.

The door clicks shut, the room bathed in darkness. The small fire was the only thing protecting him from the encroaching darkness. He reaches out, embracing the glowing warmth with frozen hands. Cowering closer and closer and finally, _finally,_

His body broke. Ragged breaths being drawn in before they are violently thrown out into the room. His body an earthquake, bones scratching against each other and-

Oxygen could never be enough. Not with how his lungs burned. With how his skin felt too tight, too cold. His mind draining of all thoughts as he stared at the fire.

Time ceased to exist.

Frost creeped into the room, the air still and frigid. He suffocated on it, his chest unwilling to expand and his throat cried in pain at every inhale. His nose burned, wetness tickling the top of his lip and his vision blurred.

This-

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Nothing was supposed to be like this.

The dagger burns his hip. A reminder of possibilities that he _still_ hasn’t taken advantage of. A reminder that he sat here, cowering from some _child_ \- some _monster_. When he could have acted.

It’d be easy.

So easy.

And he couldn’t do it. He didn’t even _try_. Instead he sat there, and let the monster talk to him. Let himself think of the words and interact and he let himself _breathe_.

His hands shake as they leave the warmth of the fire. His left can’t even feel the hilt of the blade, he’s forced to watch as his fingers struggle to grasp it. His grip keeps sliding, knuckles cracking at every movement.

He didn’t even _try_. That’s the worst part. He didn’t even-

He froze, his body betrayed him and now it broke and he can’t even _breathe_ and there’s no reason for it. He was-

He was in a house, safe or safer than before. Warmer than before. He had food, the plate Ghost brought still next to his side and he had water and oh, how his throat ached with the thought of water. There was no reason, no reason for anything. He could of-

He _could of­-_

The dagger is shaky in his hand, slipping at every jostle. The tip was a threat, dangling over a thigh and it’d be so easy to just drop the blade. _A life for a life_. Wounds for wounds. It’d be... accidental.

So easy to just,

Just to see-

He could. He _could_. It’d be confirmation. It’d be what he needed, to prove the delusion or hallucination. It’d be-

The perfect excuse.

He doesn’t, he’s not that stupid. Not that desperate. There’s other alternatives, other options. Mutilation was a dangerous one, an obvious one. There was-

The book. The old book that talked about bonds. Ghost probably had it, she grabbed all of her books after all and that was one of hers. He dares to peek over, blade trembling in a grip too weak as his thoughts drag him away. The candles are still there, dark and gloomy.

There’s books, shoved into a cubby at the bottom of the bookshelf. It’s hope that stabs, the thought of _possibilities_. More and more possibilities for him to have, and more for him to waste. To be just another moment where he is too cowardly to dare.

He dares, the blade clatters to the ground as he forces his body up. His legs shake, vision swimming in front of him and his lungs _scream_. It’s a mistake, as everything dips into blackness. A stilted step and his vision flickers, amber light filtering in from the side.

His stomach revolts, crumbling into itself and his knees nearly buckle. Another step, his vision flickers in and out and-

He dares.

He shuffles through the books slowly, sliding them across the floor and squinting at them as if he could make out the black letters in the darkness. He can’t. He could-

He could move them. Bring them closer to the light but the thought brings back the furious face. Of Ghost spitting out words with her monstrous faces. Of the axe that dangled every time she looked at him, as if daring him to disobey.

He cowered then. He cowers now.

His hands press against the cover, the pages. As if being able to feel the age in the paper. There’s nothing of course, just the phantom feeling of paper on skin as he watches his hand. There’s three of them, two thick ones and a thinner one. He couldn’t remember the thickness of the original book.

He couldn’t even remember a cover, just the delicate paper between rotting skin.

It was a waste. He shouldn’t have-

The floor creaks somewhere else in the house, complaining against whatever weight was stepping on it. The air distinctly sour.

The door doesn’t open. Light doesn’t flood in and Malakai still sits there, crouching over three books and falling apart. It’s rash when he looks down at the book and then peeks back at the door. A possibility amongst possibilities.

He grabs the books, huddling them close to his body as if that could prevent his slippery grip from letting them slide out. It’s a risk, they aren’t _his_ books after all. They were in the distinct pile of _stay away_. The pile that Ghost got in a frenzy about with his wide demon eyes as he spat out threats.

The fire reaches out, welcoming and warm. It promises safety in its embrace as it sheds its glow on Malakai. The books tumble out of his grasp, sprawling out in front of him. The dagger hides underneath one of the thicker ones.

His legs collapse, his body finally caving in to its demands. Fingers trembling, Malakai brushes through the pages. One was in one of those foreign languages. The scripture more like glyphs than anything else. The other two were readable, but neither seemed to be what he wanted. One talked riddles of the godling Nephlim. The other spoke of Qleehl and her children. An origin of nothing of importance.

A risk that was wasted.

A possibility that ended up being an impossibility.

His lungs cried, gasping for breath that he couldn’t draw. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, blocking everything he wanted. Inflamed from teeth and bile and blood, blocking his lungs from the oxygen they desperately searched for.

The dagger was still there, another risk still open and-

With his shaking right hand he grabbed it. He could imagine the feel of the hilt, the distinct mark of leather and steel mixing together and-

He bleeds.

He bleeds and bleeds, his left hand crying black blood that stained the once pure dagger.

It…

It doesn't feel like pain. It doesn't feel like freedom. It doesn't feel like anything.

It just feels like a risk that wouldn’t change anything. Another possibility that would fall into an impossibility. It felt like giving up, of accepting Death’s embrace without a struggle. It felt like walking out of his front door and never looking back.

His hand bleeds and he doesn’t even know why he thought it was a good idea to begin with.


	12. Burning Freedom

Odaix’s resignation letter was rejected. They didn’t even give her a passing glance before telling her no. She couldn’t even transfer. She was just stuck there, under the thumb of some messed up _healer_. Mihr wasn’t a healer though, he couldn’t be. It was unexplainable how he was a _healer_ and he killed.

When she had tried to file her resignation letter or request for a transfer they had handed her orders to the hole in the wall they currently were at. Mihr hadn’t offered any explanation; he seemed to prefer ignoring her existence. He just strolled straight up and into the house without even pausing.

Odaix had followed at a much slower pace. She kept trying to figure out the _what_ and _where_ and _why_ on the building they were sent to. Mihr got dragged away and Odaix got sent to a chair in what seemed to be a living room. So she sat down and waited.

And waited.

And she still waits, thrumming her fingers on the padded chair’s arm rest. It had been close to an hour since Mihr vanished. The only reason she was able to deduce that it was a hospital was because of the lady sitting next to her.

Ivory was the name she had given when she plopped down next to Odaix. _It’s a joke, for my skin_ she had said. Then she reached over and pressed her hand against Odaix’s head and made a humming noise. Odaix had startled, flinched away and stared over at her with wide eyes.

“Sorry, habit from work.” Ivory swung a smirk in Odaix’s direction before she pulled back and leaned against the chair. So they both just sat there in this clinging silence and waited.

“So. Uhm, you’re a-“ Odaix gestures in the air, trying to find something to do with her hands. She couldn’t just sit still and wait, the pads of her fingers already tingling from the incessant tapping.

“The name is Ivory. I’m a black magic, type leech.” Ivory’s grin is a crooked one as she offers up her hand. Odaix stares at it, a brief moment of hesitation before she reaches out to shake the offered hand.

“Odaix. Black magic, type possessor.” A timid smile graces her lips as she looks at Ivory. Ivory is all cool smiles and slanted eyes as she gives a hum and pulls back her hand.

“You work with a white magic, don’t you?”

“Wha- how did you know?” Odaix cocks her head to the side.

“Have you been feeling any symptoms?” Ivory ignores her completely. She leans forward, her fingers tracing patterns in the armrest.

“Symptoms?”

“Headaches, random blood loss or not clotting, nausea, bruising, vertigo, exhaustion or insomnia are the common symptoms. For the disease.” Ivory waves her fingers as if she was explaining the obvious. “So do you have any? You’ve been working with your partner for what… a week or two?”

“Um- ten days? Why are you-“

Ivory speaks right over Odaix, “So symptoms? They are wanting to get an idea on how frequently you’ll need to see a leech; especially with how Mihr is always radiating the disease. It doesn’t _seem_ like your levels are _too_ high. You might have some resistance to it.”

Ivory reaches over to touch Odaix’s forehead again. “Mihr has resistance to your magic; might be because of how much white magic he has though. There’s all sorts of theories on-“

Odaix jerks away, pressing herself as far into the seat as she can to get away from the intrusive touch. “Uh- What- Are you a doctor or something?”

“I’m a contract leech. For the last time, have you experienced any symptoms yet?” Ivory pulls away, straightening up and the smile drops from her face.

“I- Some nausea, I guess? And… pain? I-“

“You _guess?_ Have you ever been affected by the disease before?”

“Once when it first started-“

“Let me guess, you nearly died. Placebo effect. You know he’s a white magic so your mind is working against you and telling you that you should feel certain symptoms. Have you had any bouts of bleeding in the past ten days?” Ivory interrupts in a flurry.

“I think I’d-“ Odaix stops, swallowing down the words before saying, “No.”

“Not even a nosebleed?”

Odaix fidgets, eyes darting to the side as she hums her confirmation.

“Great.” Ivory claps her hands once before giving Odaix a grin and continuing, “I’ll let them know to wait another ten days before treating you. 20 or 30 days between a visit is a good timeframe; especially since your partner needs to come in semi-frequently anyways.”

“Er, why would we-“ Odaix fiddles with her fingers and tried to find the words because-

Why would she wait to be cured? Why wait for symptoms to show up and _then_ fix her. Why-

Ivory answered the unasked question without prompting, “You won’t always have a leech available, so it’s better to figure out the limits now rather than wait for you to fall into a coma later.”

Odaix would rather not even have that chance. It was a risk she’d never willingly take, something she never wanted to relive. “What if-“

“Anyways, it seems you aren’t allergic to white magic so that’s a good thing.” Another grin is flashed in Odaix’s direction before Ivory is standing up. “I’ll be reporting to the others. We may or may not see each other again, but it was a pleasure to meet you.”

Ivory is holding out her hand again, as if Odaix would count the entire experience as _nice_ and _welcome_. She doesn’t. Odaix doesn’t even move a muscle, just stares up at the leech.

Ivory just waits with that awful cheery smile of hers until Odaix relents and shakes the offered hand again.

“It-“ A frown twists Odaix’s features before she forces out the words, “Nice to meet you as well.” It wasn’t, not really. She’d have been happier sitting in silence in the living room that was an actual waiting room.

Ivory doesn’t seem to notice as she releases Odaix’s hand and leaves Odaix to the solitude of the room. Odaix doesn’t move from her corner of the couch for the longest time. The only reason she changes position was because her left arm began to go numb with pins and needles teasing her delicate flesh.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, waiting for the unknown. Well, not completely unknown. She’s waiting for Mihr, but _why_ they were at the hospital was unknown.

All they’ve done for the past ten days was paperwork. That’s it. Mihr would throw files at her while she wrote up her resignation letter and he’d be browsing through piles of folders himself.

 _Cross referencing_ , he’d called it. Getting to know your suspects, their crimes. He said it was easier to pinpoint locations and times that way and with comparing the magic used to the magic users in record you could figure out the correct identities from there.

It was a waste of time is what it was.

Outside of the initial nightmare, Mihr was… normal. Boring. A stickler for research and knowledge because _knowledge is power_. If it wasn’t for that first day, Odaix wouldn’t have been trying so hard to resign or be transferred.

She wouldn’t be looking at every suspect and seeing a grave.

Some of them were for minor things, like stealing a pack of cigarettes or for a _human_ going AWOL while drafted into the CME. Some weren’t so minor, the serial robber that Mihr had asked about when they were dealing with Jaquin for example.

Dealing with. Such a nice way of saying _murdering._

But, there was no reason for the orders they got to come _here_ of all places. Maybe it was for the leech to check them out, but Ivory didn’t even _do_ anything and-

She had said something. Something about Mihr and having semi-frequent visits to the hospitals and-

And-

Mihr’s walking out. He’s standing tall with his chin lifted. As if he was the strongest, and maybe he was. She saw what he could do with a touch, what could beat that?

Not Odaix. She’d crumble against that kind of power. And the fact that it came from such a small, delicate body? Unimaginable.

There’s a doctor next to him, she’s got her head bowed and Odaix can barely make out her lips moving. Telling him something, but she doesn’t have the faintest idea what it could be.

“Odaix.” Mihr’s voice rings out and Odaix is on her feet within seconds.

“Are we done?” She hopes they are. She wants to leave, to escape the cozy little waiting room and get away from the never ending boredom of sitting in silence. Her mind whirls, thoughts flying in and out. She just wants to _get away_.

“Yes.”

“We still need to-“ It’s the doctor talking, she’s got a frown on her face and holds her clipboard like a shield that could protect her.

“I can do it.” Mihr doesn’t even sound snappy. The words are all flat, like a robot was speaking them.

“That’s what fucked up your knee to begin with. If you would just let Dr. Anderson look at it-“ The doctor bites out, her frown deepening even more.

“What’s wrong with your knee?” Odaix didn’t even notice anything and-

They didn’t even _do_ anything. How could he injure himself?

“Nothing. Everything is fine.” There’s a twitch of Mihr’s eye before, “Thank you for your assistance doctor.”

Mihr heads out the door before the doctor can even say anything else. Whatever words were hanging on her tongue dying as the door swings shut.

“Um- sorry about- Is there anything...?” Odaix inches towards the door, giving her best apologetic smile. The doctor simply stares at her before shaking her head,

“Have a good day Ms. Ianoth.”

Mihr didn’t even wait for Odaix. As soon as she exits the large house she has to run to catch up with the small man. Mihr doesn’t even acknowledge her when she does catch up. He just keeps walking without faltering once.

“What’s wrong with your knee?”

He gives her a side glance, doll-like face frozen into something akin to forced politeness. “What do you remember of Nasei?”

Odaix blinks, biting her lip as she tries to figure where the nearby town fits in with what she was asking. There’s nothing, only-

“You said that the serial thief might be heading this way?” It still has nothing to do with his _knee_ though.

“Did you look into _why_ at all?” There’s a bite to his monotone now. As if some great weight has been put upon him without his consent. Odaix grits her teeth at the thought. It wasn’t like she wasn’t _trying_.

“I- Because they’ve been striking near Heisenworth and Nasei seems like the most likely target.” The words escape in a rush, as if she has to prove herself. She doesn’t though, she doesn’t even want to be here. But…

“Anything else?” Back to monotone. He still doesn’t even glance at her.

“Uhm, I- Because…” Odaix frowns and shoves her hands into her pocket. There’s nothing really. All she can think of is paper after paper depicting crimes or suspects. They all blur together, mixing into one chaitic mess.

How could she remember one specific file out of the hundreds Mihr had her skim through?

“It’s his hometown?” Her voice sounds weak even to her ears.

“Just say you don’t know if you don’t know.” The bite is back and Mihr walks slightly faster to the stables.

“I don’t know.” Odaix accepts her defeat with a bow of the head. The mumbled words are fed straight to the ground.

“He’s been doing a counter clockwise circle on the towns around Heisenworth. Three nights ago he hit Sindersen so he should be hitting Nasei or the next town over next. We are only checking to see if any new faces showed up in town and then cross referencing them to the information we currently have.”

“Oh.”

Mihr simply gives a hum.

The little hospital wasn’t too far from Nasei. The sun didn’t even dip at all during the journey.

Mihr was stubbornly hunkered over the horse; his small frame struggling to fight against the jarring movement of the creature. Odaix still marveled on how such a small man, boy really, could even ride a full grown horse.

She struggled herself and she was _taller_ than the other by at least half a foot.

Nasei itself was a small town. Mom and pop shops littered the main road with some of the monopolies lurking in the background. There’s trees and bushes lining the busy dirt road that were filled with horses, wagons, and pedestrians. For such a small place it was loud, filled with chatter and laughter.

“Where are we going?” Odaix broke the stifling silence as she leaned further into her horse. Mihr doesn’t so much as flinch from the sudden noise.

“There’s a news shop further up.”

“Why would go there?” The horses begin to slow. Mihr guides his horse to a clearing near the side of the road with Odaix following behind like a baby duck.

“You can find a lot of information there.” Mihr stumbles as he hits the ground and drags the horse reins down with him.

“On an arsonist thief? Wouldn’t the police be better?”

“It’s not just information on the thief we will be looking for.” His words are more clipped and he’s glaring at the horse. The poor creature just stands there with its head tilted to get leeway from the reins.

“Plus, the news shop here is also their grocer. Small towns usually don’t have the land to separate everything like the cities.”

The horses ended up getting tied to one of the trees near the clearing. Odaix shiftily eyeing the tied reins and asking, “Are you sure this is okay?”

“Do you want to pay for a space in the stables for a few hours?” Mihr doesn’t even look back. He’s already charging ahead and leaving Odaix to fend for herself.

One last look at the horses and Odaix trails behind Mihr on the way to the news shop. It’s not that far from where they tied up the horses; no where near long enough for the silence between them to start suffocating Odaix.

The news shop is this large glass building with newspapers lining the window. There’s even a tv in one corner with images playing across it. As Mihr neared it the image dissolved into static before flickering back to life once he passed it.

A bell rings as they open the door and they’re greeted by a shouted,

“Welcome to Nicks!”

The entire place is lit by lamps, newspapers lining the first row before dissolving into aisles of food and other miscellaneous things. In one of the back corners Odaix spots the owner of the voice; an older man that gives them a slight wave.

Mihr doesn’t even pause as he makes a beeline straight to one of shelves with newspapers on it. Odaix hesitates, eyes flickering from the old man to Mihr.

She was probably expected to help Mihr with whatever he was looking for but… She _liked_ talking to people. It beats reading musty papers anyways. She didn’t even know _what_ Mihr was looking for. Everything in the newspapers they should already know.

Another glance at the old man and it seems he lost interest in his new customers. Instead he was talking avidly to another man. Mihr on the other hand was starting to pull out newspaper after newspaper.

It feels like dragging concrete when Odaix makes her way over to Mihr. He doesn’t even notice her presence, simply continues to browse the titles and grabbing them at random. Nothing that seems like it would be the slightest bit productive.

She grabs one as well, one on the top shelf with the bold words of **_NEPHLIM PROTESTOR MURDERED_**.

“Not that one. Get January 4th, I already went through the 13th. Nothing of interest happened.” Odaix jumps at the soft voice.

“O-okay. Which- ah.” Mihr taps the right hand corner of the newspaper before she even finishes asking the question.

“Pay more attention.” Is all Mihr says before he goes back to his hoard of papers. Odaix’s shoulders slump, pouting before she scans over the newspaper dates.

January 4th was a boring one on the cover. The cover was about some school science fair, first place going to an experiment on the disease and how it interacted with plants. The second page though-

 ** _GHOST CONFIRMED DEAD_** it displayed in big bold letters. She knew that name; saw it scribbled on several of the pages Mihr had given her earlier in the week _and_ everyone knew about the serial killer.

She glances over at Mihr, certain that he’d already read this newspaper if it had such big news on one of his cases. There’s no way he hadn’t. Not with his obsessive need to read every article.

She bites her lip, gives one more shifty glance over at Mihr before skimming through the article. _Mihr and Malakai Detrann (deceased) were investigating the serial killer known as Ghost,_ it began. Odaix chanced another peek at Mihr before skipping through the paragraph.

Basically, Mihr had reported both his partner’s death and Ghost thanks to natural causes in the wastelands further west. No bodies were found, but it was the _wastelands_. Even Odaix, who came from the southern east parts, knew that place was a death trap.

Mihr was the sole survivor though.

_Doctors kill people too._

It’d be so easy just for Mihr to kill his partner and no one would suspect a thing. He could-

“That’s because of stupidity.” Odaix jumps, head jerking up to stare at Mihr who was hovering next to her. His pale eyes were trained down at the article. “There’s a time to give chase, and a time to just wait. Stupidity is charging in without knowing.”

He looks up at her before saying, “I’m not going to be your crutch. If you want to be stupid, I’ll let you be stupid. _I_ won’t be stupid with you though.” Mihr’s voice is cold, like a sheet of ice.

Odaix fears she could slip on it. Slide and crash into the ice. She fears that it’d break under her weight and she’d _drown_. She swallows before croaking out, “Oh. Um.”

He stares for a second longer before, “Go talk to the clerk. See if there is anything worth knowing.”

“I can help-“

“No, you can’t.” Mihr snatches the newspaper out of Odaix’s hand before turning away and going towards the beginning of the aisle.

Odaix just stares after him. Her fingers twitch and she takes a step after Mihr because she _can_ help. She can. He told her not to though. He brushed her away and-

She turns and heads towards the back with her shoulders slumped. It was what she originally wanted, but-

She could _help_.

The clerk is still talking to the same man. He’s not gesturing anymore, instead he’s more akin to a cardboard cutout. His smile twitches as he turns to Odaix and says,

“If you could, please give us a few minutes and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Um, I actually don’t want anything. I was just-“

“In a moment.” The man’s voice is harsh, the smile dropping as he stares at Odaix. Odaix raises a hand, the words to argue at the tip of her tongue before she swallows them.

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you over when we are done.” He gives a slight smile.

The man across from the clerk just offers a shrug before returning his attention back to the clerk. Odaix is left twiddling her thumbs, leaning against one of the aisles as she peeks over at the clerk and the man.

She doesn’t even know what all she’s going to ask the man so maybe it was a blessing in disguise that he was preoccupied. Mihr probably didn’t even expect her to get anything useful out of the clerk. If he did, he would have made sure he was at least _there_.

Whatever they were talking about, the clerk did not look pleased at all. Maybe the talks were on returning something or the man was accusing the clerk of stocking expired items. Maybe it was personal or-

It didn’t really matter _what_ the two were talking about. She just hoped it wouldn’t leave the clerk in a bad mood.

Which, was likely a lost cause already.

It wouldn’t be the first time she had to juggle a conversation around someone who was miffed. Wouldn’t be the last either.

She could just-

“Leave. You’ll regret it if you don’t.” The voice echoes in the shop so loud that even the walls shake. It’s the clerk, he’s standing tall with the fiercest scowl. His hands are fists pressed tightly against his pants.

The man doesn’t even flinch, just lowers his head and says something Odaix doesn’t catch. He leans his weight onto the counter between them as he talks.

“Last warning, leave.” The clerk reaches for something underneath the counter.

Odaix takes a step forward, words tickling the tip of her tongue but suddenly there’s a cold hand gripping her arm.

There’s a spark, the air flickers-

The man leans closer to the clerk and reaches his hand out-

Mihr is behind her, his delicate fingers encasing her arm in a fragile hold that could shatter like glass at the slightest hint of force.

If she wanted to, she could watch as his hold splintered off into tiny shards of glass. She could just move, jerk her arm out of those delicate fingers and step forward.

She could.

Glass breaks skin though. Tears into tender flesh and draws blood. A risk to breaking that fragile grasp.

It’s terrifying that such a small thing could cause her to _fear_.

She’s frozen, delicate glass encasing her arm as she watches and-

There’s screaming.

This awful, blood curdling scream.

It’s worse than the glass.

It’s worse than the man in the coma who suddenly died.

It’s worse than the man who caused the death of the man in the coma.

It smells of burning flesh.

Something toxic and awful.

Smoke, black and curling and-

The _screams_ -

She should-

She’s-

There’s this wretched gasping sound; wet breath being thrown out before getting corrupted by agony.

She wants to get _away_.

The glass is still there, just this gentle touch and-

The smoke is gone. The smell of burnt flesh is just a thing from her imagination. The older man is standing there hugging his arm to his chest and the other one is just standing there as if nothing happened. The air sparks again as the younger man leans forward.

Odaix just stands there, screams echoing in her head that no longer exist. She just _stands there_.

Doing nothing,

 _Nothing_.

She needs to move. To go, if she could-

Cold fingers release her arm and suddenly Mihr is stepping forward. This frail boy drowning in clothes that are too big just steps forward and Odaix is stuck, unmoving.

Afraid.

Of Mihr. Of the younger man who seemed to control _fire_ and-

That’s what they were there for. The robber, the one that was an arsonist. Of course Mihr would go forward, it’s their _job_. It’s-

But he stopped her at first. He held her back with the iron grip of fear and the delicate touch of glass. He _stopped her_. She was going to _help_. If she had the chance, she was going to.

The younger man pauses, tilts his head away from the clerk and says, “This doesn’t deal with you. Skedaddle kid.”

Mihr pauses, his head tilting and then he’s reaching forward with his glass fingers.

“You don’t need to-” The old man’s voice is a croak, raw with pain and torn from screaming. It’s too late for whatever the old man was about to say, Mihr’s already close enough to touch.

Odaix just stands there, a rock waiting for the ocean waves of reality to crash into her and force her into movement.

Fire explodes around her as the man swats at Mihr’s reaching hand. Heat burning into her very skin as the floor turns to ash. Smoke fills the air and suddenly-

The old man is screaming again; there’s movement.

She can’t breathe, she’s hovering in one moment to the next and once again there’s _fire_ -

The fire was everywhere, the air crackled with it and sparks danced in the air.

She can’t _breathe_.

It’s a stumble, away from the heat and from the chaos that started it and-

She’s going the wrong direction because Mihr is still there and-

The screaming, it’s awful.

The _stench_ of burning clogs her throat and the flames keep reaching and reaching and-

This was a mistake.

Everything was a mistake.

She can’t even see Mihr amongst the flames, eyes squinting in the onslaught of heat. He’s in front of her but the fire has eaten away all hopes of seeing him.

The fire could be feasting on his flesh,

The burning smell could be _him_.

She _can’t breathe._

Another step back, her heel hits one of the aisles.

The black smoke suffocates. It drags itself down her throat like sludge on every attempted inhale. Tears burn the edges of her eyes as everything blurs into a mixture of red and orange and-

 _She can’t breathe_.

It’s gone in a snap.

Everything is untouched.

The air clear of black smoke and the first lungful of air she takes in _hurts_. It’s an ache that vibrates through her entire being at the force of it. Mihr stands in front of her, this solid shadow of a child that simply _stands_ there. He’s where the fire was. He’s what should of burnt and-

It’s still there. The smell of burnt flesh fills the room. There’s still the ragged breathing of the clerk, his entire frame shaking behind the counter as he curls up into himself.

The arsonist is on the ground in a crumpled heap. Occasionally there’s a twitch, as if he was trying to get up before gravity drags him back down.

Mihr cocks his head, taking a step forward before crouching next to the collapsed man.

“Odaix.” His voice is as loud as the fire, cracking right through the air. “Come over here.” Mih doesn’t even bother to look up, instead forcing the arsonist’s head up and pressing fingers against the frantically throbbing vein in the man’s throat.

Odaix takes one small, skittering step forward. She’s still gulping in air as if scared it’ll be tainted with smoke again, but she manages to find the strength to propel her feet closer to the origin of the fire.

Or what was the fire.

What was never actually a fire, but it felt like one. Sounded like on and smelt like one and oh-

It _burned_ like one too.

“What do you think? Safe to put into a prison?” Mihr acts like he’s talking about the weather, voice this soft melody as he offers a slight hum. “I think the guards would have fun with the fire.” Everything about the words are _awful_. She knows what he’s doing, she wasn’t stupid.

It’s that newspaper article all over again. Another show and tell.

“You still think prison is the better option, don’t you?” His fingers are still pressed against the arsonist’s pulse, as if he was waiting for something.

Odaix stopped looking, choking on her tongue to prevent any response. Instead, there was the clerk. Some hollow of what he was before, hunched over his arm as he stumbled back. He’s reaching for something, blindly groping the wall behind him.

“Do you- I can- Are you okay?” She takes a bigger step forward.

Mihr is looking at her now, she can see those pale eyes on the porcelain face. He hasn’t moved his hand, as if he was comfortable sitting there with his hand pressed against someone’s throat.

The older man’s head jerks up, his entire face screwed up and-

She can see bits and pieces of his arm now, this black and red mess of flesh.

That smell was still there, sitting in the back of her throat and she didn’t even _think_ someone actually got burnt. Not with the fire not actually existing, not with the imaginary smoke. Not with Mihr still being in one piece despite standing where the fire was. The man just grimaces at her, “I- a healer.” He chokes on the words as if his lungs were filled with smoke.

“Of course- um-“ Odaix is closer now, peering down at the mangled up arm as if she could-

She couldn’t, but Mihr could.

“Mihr! He’s a- He’s a healer so,” She looks over at him and Mihr is still staring as if she was a dog that learned a new trick.

“I- I’m going to call the hospital.” The older man is jerking away, another grimace that Odaix thinks might actually be a smile as he adds, “Thanks.”

There’s a click, the wall- _a door_ \- swinging open and revealing a dark closet. An office maybe, the clerk is blocking most of the room from view, but it has to be something other than a closet.

“Do you need-“ She doesn’t even know what she’d offer to begin with. Odaix is just stuck frozen, twisting her hands up as she just _stands_.

“Do you think he will die?” Mihr’s voice is a pebble thrown into a still lake. The ripples force Odaix to turn around and stare at the small frame squatting next to the crumbled body of the arsonist.

“Wha-“

Mihr stops looking at her.

“I think he will. He’s not worth a miracle.” His fingers are still pressed to the jumping pulse of the arsonist.

“He’s-“ _Not fine_. She’s seen Mihr kill before. All it takes is a touch.

Mihr’s fingers press into the man’s throat.

“He-Hello? I’m calling for- There’s been an accident. There was an attempted robbery and-“

All it takes is one touch, and his magic could destroy a brain.

“Don’t.” The word is barely a whisper. Mihr still doesn’t look at her.

“-yes. I think- I’m the only one injured. Yes, there were two customers in the shop during the attack-”

There’s this sound, this awful hollowed sound and the arsonist’s body jerks. He’s got wide brown eyes, this dark honey brown that melts into his tanned skin. Mihr’s hand stands out like a star in an empty night sky.

“Please don’t.” The words are dry on her tongue. It’s an empty request, she already knows Mihr would never listen to it. She shuts her eyes, as if that would make the vision of Mihr’s hand on the man’s throat go away.

It does.

Instead she sees a dark room with a monitor.

There’s a line zig zagging on the screen.

It’s worse.

“-the robber is still here. He uh- he might need medical attention? He collapsed, but one of the-“

“Is he worth more than everyone else?” Odaix startles as Mihr’s voice rings out next to her. Her eyes fling open to stare at the man, the boy, the _child_ who simply watches with his pale pink eyes.

“His life _matters_.” The words are pulled out by cold, glass fingers.

The arsonist is still a crumpled heap on the floor, not a muscle moving. All she hears is the awful screeching sound. The line of the monitor dipping and dipping before vanishing.

She can’t even breathe, her throat dry and constricting as if she could swallow air. The world blurs, reality and the dark room merging and _that noise_ -

Odaix chokes, eyes squeezing shut before she blinks the image away. Mihr is still watching her.

“You won’t last long if you can’t prioritize. Either be useful, or they’ll find a way to make you useful.” He stops looking at her, his entire body directed at the arsonist. “Harmless nephlims are hard to find after all.”

Everything is cold, the phantom warmth long gone as reality sinks in with every word.

This was a mistake.

“The police will be here soon.” It’s the clerk, his voice loud and booming. A welcome contrast to Mihr’s soft monotone. The older man is leaning against the wall, a grimace stuck to his face as he cradles his arm.

Mihr offers a hum.

There’s this poisonous feeling bubbling up, acid coating her throat as Mihr just turns away and starts walking. She should follow, but her feet are lead.

Maybe she could just stay put and he’d vanish from her life. Maybe the CME would vanish with him.

“Hey! You shouldn’t leave yet. The police-“

“We’re with the CME.” Is all Mihr offers as he stalks out. There’s a slight stumble once he nears the front aisle, his knee seeming to give out, but then he’s sweeping up an article off the floor and pocketing it.

“That’s-!” The booming echoes into the room as the door opens with a ringing bell. The older man is pushing himself up, his entire body jolting as his burnt arm grazes his body.

“It’s fine! I’ll- I’ll pay for it.” Odaix stumbles over her feet as she rushes forward. She digs into one of her pockets, trying to find whatever amount of coins was needed to pay for the stolen paper.

The older man just stands there, his entire body this stiff line as he works his mouth open and close before, “What about the- the robber?”

Odaix freezes, eyes slanting to the arsonist on the floor behind the counter. His wide, brown eyes had already started to glaze over. Her eyes flicker away. “He... won’t be an issue.” The words are dust in her already parched throat. “How- how much for the newspaper?”

The clerk just stares at her, not a muscle moving and for a second Odaix expects him to fall onto the floor and cease to be as well. “5 silvers- How do you know he won’t be an issue?” It’s a heartless question, one that makes Odaix flinch away.

She quickly counts out the coins, flashing a smile that breaks at the corners before repeating, “He won’t be an issue.”

You’d have to be alive to be an issue after all.

When Odaix exits the shop Mihr is standing in front of the TV. There’s a stutter in her footsteps as she approaches him. It might be a good thing that he stuck around, she wouldn’t have known where to go otherwise.

She wishes he hadn’t stuck around though.

“You- He’s-” She chokes on the words, as if saying them would make them a reality. It already was a reality; nothing she said or did would change the glossed over brown eyes and still body. “He’s dead.”

Mihr drags his gaze away from the flickering static of the TV screen. “I know. His heart stopped beating.”

The acid is back, crawling all over Odaix’s skin and dripping down her throat. Her stomach turns as she thinks of his hand on the arsonist’s pulse.

“Did you know? That- that he’d be here?”

“Would that make you feel better?” Mihr cocks his head to the side, pale eyes looking right into Odaix’s soul. “Would it make you feel better to think I knew everything rather than the Godlings deciding he didn’t deserve to live anymore?”

The acid keeps dripping, eating away at her lungs and words until she had nothing she could offer, not even air.

This…

Everything,

It was all a mistake.


	13. Failing Cities

Felix stands up, arms reaching up to the sky as he stretches. There’s a pop, a release of tension and a buzz that ripples through his entire being. He finishes with a yawn, mouth stretching wide as he sucks in oxygen before he staggers over to one of the other chairs in the room.

“How you handling it, kiddo?” His voice is rough. Tired. As if he hadn’t slept enough, but maybe he hasn’t. Felix scrubs at his hair as he gives another yawn.

“I’m fine.” Aizel waves at him, attention fixed on the papers scattered in front of him on the shitty hotel desk. Always trying to prove himself, that is Aizel. The poor kid is trying to figure out how to _woo_ Rizeal. As if he could bend her to his ways.

Rizeal was a bit of a stubborn one, no matter how many talents you have.

Honestly, Felix was impressed when the little run away soldier threw a stack of papers at him a week ago and told him that he found Tyria Ionar’s killers. A duo that worked with a small mercenary group called Ashei. An irony, in Felix’s opinion, that a mercenary group is named after _justice_.

Even Rizeal was impressed when she perused through the paperwork. Even if the boy is wrong, there is enough backing to give them a solid case. Not that Rizeal said anything, she gave the boy a quick glance, a shake of her head and then she led the trio all the way to Atynik

Atynik is a mess. It’s busy and loud, bright flickering lights with cars rumbling down barely paved roads. It’s full of life in a way the countryside never could be and Felix _loves_ it. It’s like being whole, being reunited with a long lost loved one. Their horses are currently subjected to some stable on the outskirts of the bustling city and they hailed a taxi to one of the cheaper hotels before they were able to drop everything and melt into the beds.

Rizeal, naturally, just stuffed things into the dresser before she ran away looking as if she was harried. Felix gave her a split second of his attention before cuddling a pillow close to himself and succumbing to the sweet, sweet caress of sleep.

Horseback was shit. Is shit. His entire being was going to be sore for _days_ and then they’d need to ride horseback all the way north and-

Just thinking about it gave him cramps.

“Well, if you’re sure- I am going to go out and… meander. Make sure no one sees you.” Felix claps the boy on the shoulder, taking a perverse joy as the boy jumps and startled gold eyes glance at him. Aizel doesn’t even say anything, pinching his lips together before he looks back down at the papers in front of him.

It’s a warm day, compared to the past month. The sun shines high and the air is this stilted peace, not even an antsy rustle as the minutes go by. The hotel they crashed at is one of the older ones, sitting down city and away from where the main events happen. Not that it matters, Felix plans to stay away from that train wreck.

Protests were never his thing. They’re loud, jostling and full of bodies all screaming different things. The tinier protests, like the one in Mavinsport, Felix could tolerate. But these? The ones in the big cities with hundreds clustering up on the streets as they shouted and plead at whatever big namesake they were trying to move.

Protests never worked, you see. They work in little ways but nothing big. He’s watched huge protests fall into riots and for the streets to run red as the violence escalates and escalates. It’s terrifying.

He shuts his eyes, inhaling the winter air with spring dancing in its footsteps. A step forward and then he just walks.

People are lively, energetic and bustling. There’s smiles and joy. Even amazement as citizens’ gossip about the protest and the CME. There’s a kid, bouncing on the toes of his feet as he babbles to his older brother about how one day _he_ was going to join the CME. There’s a girl, cleaning windows and frowning at a set of noisy teenagers as she curses the amount of tourists the protest brought.

There’s more, this warm buzz resting on Felix’s mind and,

It’s nice.

Calm. Like a lake in spring. He could be fishing, sitting on the bank with a line out and there’s this gentle breeze rustling his hair. The sun would be high, warm. That’s what Atynik is like, a lake in the springtime. The protest is simply a couple kids playing in the water, laughing and shrieking as they splash one another. A small disturbance, but something joyful.

For now at least, but it hasn’t started. Not officially. Rizeal is off schmoozing with old friends whilst Aizel is hiding away in their hotel on the off chance someone might recognize the runaway.

Felix is just here to enjoy the weather. And recruit. Always there for recruiting. Rizeal might recruit a few people, but she never mentioned their _true_ goal. It’s scary, to the others. To help out hybrid nephlims is to set yourself up for death after all. Everyone knows how it goes thanks to the CME.

There’s a man, slim and jaunty resting against one of the bricked buildings. A shop, Felix notes as he takes a second look. The man is flipping through some notebook, a pensive look on his face and his mind is this dark hole. Someone that pulled the short straw; someone undeniably in the CME. The poor sod is cursing his luck for getting _this_ watch. Nothing interesting is going to happen after all, not this early at least. If he was going to get a watch, he would have preferred one of the later ones. Or one where he could sit in some building and enjoy the warmth of a fire. Either or, he wasn’t picky.

He’s not even in uniform, which if they were hiding would make sense. But there is no reason for the _CME_ to be hiding. There shouldn’t be a reason anyways, not unless they were expecting something to actually happen.

Felix walks past the man, only sparing him one last glance before barging into the bustle on the other side of the street. It’s a group squabbling over who has cooler abilities, the shapeshifter that can barely change or the girl who is _technically_ a leech, but unable to take the disease. The other boy in the trio just has his nose in the air as he loudly proclaims, “Obviously _I’m_ the best. Who can beat illusions? That’s like, pulling a rabbit out of a hat kind of shit right there. Magic, the _real deal_.”

The other two are nowhere near impressed and Felix huffs a chuckle as he slides between the squabbling teens. He’s a distance away as he hears a shriek, the lake rippling as a pebble is thrown and the girl shouts, “You can’t even _do_ anything!”

“Neither can you!”

There’s a scuffle, shoes skidding against concrete and Felix doesn’t even need to look back to picture the girl trying to grab the other boy as he ducks under their other friend whose just _done_ with them. Sweet childish antics. Sometimes, he misses those times. Back when nothing really mattered and everything was carefree. Given, when he was a youngster the disease wasn’t even a thing.

Magic was simply a fairy tale, something only Anate did in the stories his mother used to tell.

The lake calms again as he walks further into the city. The wind picks up and tears through the trees; thoughts and misgivings fall like the displaced leaves. He doesn’t need to focus, the air is loud and full, welcoming him with open arms and letting him hear everything.

He swings his fishing line and-

There’s a dam, somewhere in the lake. Building and building. It’s a small thing, barely noticeable but Felix can feel it.

He doesn’t pause to ponder as he slides into the gas station across from the park Rizeal should be at. It’s quiet, full of nick knacks and snacks without a soul insight. There’s a car sitting in the front, a soft rumble as whoever impatiently waits on it to fill their car up. Felix spares them a quick glance before stretching up and up and-

There’s boy minding the counter. The poor sod has his chin digging into his chest as he fiddles with a pen. He fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and Felix just watches as the boy’s head sways with the motion. The dam continues to build.

“Hello.”

Felix can’t help but smile as the boy jolts up, eyes impossibly wide and pen slipping from his grip. “Ah- Uhm- Hello. Are you- Do you need anything?” The boy bites his lip before straightening up, shoulders squaring down and he adds, “Can I help you with anything?”

He can’t be more than 16. Probably his first job, but his mind is nowhere near thinking of customer service. The boy, Davis his nametag says, keeps flickering his eyes away and out. Towards the window, as if worried and there’s this niggling little worry. _CME_ , Felix could read the thought anywhere.

Felix’s smile turns vicious, walking straight up to the counter before leaning and, “How old are you?”

Davis’ face falls, a sour look crossing it, “Can I help with anything?” His tone is forceful, pointed. He doesn’t even glance at the window for an entire minute.

“Yes. Are you familiar with healing magic?” And _that_ makes the boy pause. Davis stares up at Felix, eyebrows scrunching low on his brow and there’s a hesitation before,

“I’m not a nephlim.”

It’s a lie. The dam shakes, water pushing against its delicate structure. “It’s okay if you are, you aren’t going to _lose_ anything being a nephlim.” Felix tells an even bigger lie. It feels heavy on his tongue even if in _certain_ light it technically isn’t a lie. After all, being a plain old boring nephlim wouldn’t cause anything _too_ disastrous to happen _._

Being a hybrid would though.

“I’m not. Can I help you with anything?” The words are forceful, a push. As if they could _make_ Felix go away. The boy is even glaring. He’s worried, wondering if _Felix_ is CME.

“I’m not.”

Davis freezes. “You’re not what?”

Felix waves off the boy before adding, “Actually, me and my friend are here for the little get together going on over there.” Felix cocks his head towards the window looking out at the park. Davis just watches him, the dam this turbulent thing. Half of it turns to ice, the other half retreats. Worried.

The lake outside is calm, leaves littering the still surface. The calm before the storm, as they say.

“You’re here for nephlim jobs?” The words are stilted, space hovering between every syllable as if the boy was trying to swallow the words instead of say them.

“And nephlim research. And nephlim rights. Everything nephlim really.” Felix gives a grin before adding mischievously, “Including hybrid nephlims.”

The dam bursts, flooding everything. It’s chaos and Felix _drowns_ as the boy stutters out, “Hybrid? Ah- Uhm. There’s- I’m-“ Davis is like a small animal, cornered by the hungry fox. His eyes darting everywhere and he even takes a step back before raising a hand. It trembles in the air. It’s a threat, soft and quiet, but still a _threat_.

“I’m not with the CME.” Felix reminds, smile dropping as the words escape in a quiet hush. “Actually, we’re here specifically to _help_.”

 _How do I know that? Why would I trust you?_ The words might as well be written on the boy’s face. Davis swallows down the words, hand still hanging in the air.

“You don’t need to. I’m just here to tell you there are other options.” Felix reaches next to the counter to grab a bag of chips. “And, I’ll take this.”

Davis is horribly young, his parents must have been terrified when the law was passed. The poor boy gives a shaky nod, hand falling to his side before he takes a step closer to the register. “That- That’ll be 1 silver.”

Felix digs into his coin purse, offering up a silver coin for the kid to take. Davis’ eyes shift, flickering from the coin to Felix to the window and then back to the coin. The poor thing is thinking it’s a trap, a small part of his mind still thinking that Felix is with the CME. How a simple coin transfer could be a trap, Felix would never know.

“It won’t bite. Promise.” Davis scowls, snatching up the coin and shoving it in the register as he snaps,

“Thank you. Please come again.” Felix chuckles. He doesn’t even need the world to be loud for him to hear the underlying words.

Felix presses his hand against the counter, leaning in as he whispers, “You should be safe for now, but be careful about the CME. This city is stuffed full with them at the moment.”

The boy’s hand freezes over the register, eyes an unblinking stare. Felix gives a sharp toothed smile as he adds, “Look for Andrea’s in Laqrea if you or your family catch the wrong attention. If anyone asks, tell them Nathan sent you.”

Felix pushes away, swiping up the bag of chips on his way out. The dam’s flooding slows, a hiccup here and there as the poor kid tries to figure out what to do. Most likely, he’s going to ignore Felix and his words. Brush it under the rug and go on about his day.

But one day, probably sooner rather than later, something will happened and with any luck the boy will remember.

All it takes is one word to set something in motion after all.

The lake is still calm outside. Leaves litter the smooth surface, the sun reflects with its blinding light. The park is loud, not full of kids like one would expect but swarming with chattering adults. Rizeal is somewhere in the chaos, probably more close to the center point where a stand rests.

There’s benches scattered about, with trees looming over and providing shade for those running from the sun. Not that there is a reason to flee, it is barely warm as it is- and that’s with the sun beaming overhead.

On the outskirts, there’s men and women with the stiff CME uniform donned. Probably even more CME enlisted in civilian clothes hidden amongst the crowd. It’s a wonder on how many of them there are. He’s never seen so many in all honesty- not in one place at least.

There’s an old lady on one of the benches flipping a phone open and close. Odd, since one wouldn’t work in the city to begin with. She’s impatient, mind buzzing with something akin to a hunger and-

It clicks.

Leeches.

Of course the CME would bring leeches. It wouldn’t make sense for them to neglect that part, especially if they are already getting letters worrying about the fall out of such an open event.

There’s probably at least one more lurking around. Conspicuous in the environment and blending in with all of the mayhem.

Felix blinks, strides over to the old lady and slides into the other side of the bench. She jumps, side eyeing him for a second before flipping her phone open again.

A counting game, Felix decides as he scans through the crowd. 

There’s about seven in uniform, ropes of differing colors hanging from their shoulders. He thinks it’s something to do with their job. Or rank. One or the other, he’s never really paid too much attention to the CME. _Know thy enemy_ Rizeal would scold. She knew. She cared.

Felix was too angry to care back when it would have been important. Now it simply isn’t vital for him to know.

If there are seven in uniform there’s probably at least three out of uniform. Which, Aizel said he thought there’d be ten. Twenty if they expect it to get rowdy so maybe it’s just the CME being the CME. Hiding in plain sight, just in case. He wouldn’t put it past them.

The lake ripples, the make believe kids freezing in spot as something bubbles in the distance. Anger, rage. Unfairness. Felix shuts his eyes, leans back. The old leech shuts her phone again with a harsh click.

If the CME doesn’t expect it to be rowdy, they’d be stupid. No matter what everyone’s hopes are, there’s still the open wound of Tyria’s death in the newspaper and the CME’s lack of action. She died, and they left it alone. People can’t help but prod at open wounds.

There’s yelling amongst all of the bustling. Felix can _see_ the angry fingers being pointed. One of the men, fuming over the lack of justice. The lake ripples as the CME agent jerks away with furious thoughts. It wasn’t _their_ fault, so why should they have to deal with it? They’re just doing their job. Nothing more, nothing less.

Just another paycheck.

Felix’s eyes flick open and he stares up at the sky. Not a single cloud in sight, the sun beaming high above.

He thinks it should rain today. Today doesn’t seem like it is going to be a day worth sunshine.

The phone snaps open again. A sharp click amongst all of the voices buzzing in the air. He spots Rizeal for a second, charging over to the other side of the park- her blonde hair like a neon sign.

There’s a fight, a man shoving at one of the CME in uniform. Another leaf falls into the lake, sitting on the surface for a split second before it drowns.

The phone snaps shuts, the old lady adjusts her posture as she leans forward with a frown.

Magic, you see, can be quite the disastrous thing. Nothing happens despite the tense figures.

Rizeal pulls at the man’s shoulder, apologizing to the CME. She’s worried, it hasn’t even started yet and people are getting antsy. She’s trying to figure out how to distract the man, get him away. No need to antagonize the CME after all, they had the power. Not the protestors.

There’s a pause, the lake rippling in anxiety before the man steps back on his own. Another leaf falls, a ripple and then it is calm once again. Another CME charges over, instantly gesturing in the air with their hands. Complaining about their lot in life, probably.

The phone flips open and Felix lets his curiosity win over, leaning over to catch a glimpse at it and-

It’s a smiling kid, a tooth missing and chubby cheeks. “Yours?”

The old lady startles, head jolting back before she glances over at him, “My son’s.” The phone clicks shut and her other hand goes to engulf the small device.

Felix gives a soft hum, looking back towards the chaos unfolding before them, “Are you with the CME?”

She laughs, this croaking kind of laugh. “No, I’m not.” She’s smiling though, eyes crinkled and she’s thinking, _you get paid more contracting_. She doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to. Felix understands. “Are you?” It’s an innocent question, she doesn’t actually care.

Felix shrugs, “Nah, my friend is here for the protest.”

“So is my son.” Her thumb rubs against the top of the phone.

“And you?” It’s her turn to shrug at Felix’s question.

“I’m here if anyone catches something they shouldn’t.” He wonders if it includes stopping anyone that gets too feisty. He’s never been sure how the leeches work- blood contact, he remembers that. Would she need to touch a perpetrator to draw out the disease from their blood?

He’s never had to interact with a leech before. Blessings from the godlings he supposes. Nathan and Rizeal had to use leeches before, but Felix was always separated from those trips. _Too risky_ they’d say.

“Think they will?”

She gives a snort, the sound drowning in her throat as she gives him another glance, “You’ve got hundreds of nephlims and humans in one location. It’d be impossible for the disease _not_ to spread.” She thinks he’s stupid, thinks everyone _here_ is stupid. She might be right, but not for the chance of an outbreak.

No, they’re stupid for something else entirely.

Rizeal stands on the stage, playing with a microphone as she talks to one of the other participants. She’s too far from the speaker for her voice to carry, but she’s gesturing with hurried movements. Another leaf falls into the lake, another ripple.

Felix rubs his legs as he goes back to counting. There’s another CME in uniform that popped up, making their numbers at least nine. The old lady is still clutching at her phone, thumb moving in circular movements. He’s not the only one that can sense the discord.

Standing, he flashed the old lady a grin and says, “Well, I hope nothing too entertaining happens.”

She gives a nod, lips not even twitching in a smile as she stares off in the distance, “Hopefully it’ll be just another boring complaint about the CME.” Felix freezes, grin twisting into something ugly and unnatural before he gives a jerking nod. The protest wasn’t supposed to be about the CME to begin with.

Rizeal isn’t even touching the microphone anymore, she’s banding close to someone and arguing. Her posture tense and hands clutched to her sides and contained. There’s herds of people between Felix and Rizeal, groups clutching together as they talk over one another as if that can decide who’s right and who’s wrong.

Another leaf falls into the lake. The children are still frozen, joy long forgotten.

Felix wades into the water, throwing himself right in the middle of the fray as he rushes towards Rizeal.

She’s shocked, when she sees him. Her blue eyes go wide for a second before narrowing, she holds up a hand to pause her companion before calling out, “Nathan. I thought you were staying in the hotel.” _With Aizel_ goes unsaid.

“I don’t think we should be here right now.” There’s a shout, people shoving and there’s that bristling anger bubbling up in the water again. Someone from the CME intruding where they aren’t wanted. It’s their job though and-

The park is so horribly loud, the further in he wades the louder everything gets. The leaves tremble against the surface, some dipping dangerously in the water. He was lax, he should have paid more attention. The dam wasn’t the only thing he should have looked for, Davis still sits frozen in the gas station as Felix’s fishing line tangles with everybody else.

“What? It’s fine-“ Rizeal looks back at her friend, Sam maybe, but Felix never meant the man before. “Ah, Nathan,” She cocks her head to the side where the other man stands, “meet Adrian. Sam’s brother.” Adrian’s a tall guy, long and lean with dark hair tied up into a bun and scruff on his cheeks. A few gray hairs here and there flying loose in the chilly wind.

Felix smiles, offers up his hand for the other man to shake. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard more about your sibling than you, I must say.” Adrian gives a laugh, grasping Felix’s hand as he says,

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she never got over her crush on Sam.” There’s a wink before Adrian pulls away.

Rizeal rolls her eyes, “Yes, yes, because if an eleven year old befriends someone it’s obviously because they have a crush.”

“I mean, if the shoe fits.” She shoves at Felix before charging into a different topic,

“Anyways, Nathan and myself are working on changing the consequences for criminal actions. Killing people is just…” Her lips press together in a thin, white line.”

Adrian shifts, another leaf falling into the turmoil lake that pretends to be calm. “I mean, it makes sense to a point. What else are they supposed to do? Plus, people _shouldn’t_ be abusing the disease for criminal actions anyways.” He’s more worried about other people, the ones that are victims to the society that the war crafted.

“There’s not even proof-“

“I think,” Felix interrupts, eyes drilling into the other man, “that it isn’t so much the criminals we are trying to help. If you look into it, there have been countless times that bystanders would get drawn into the CME’s investigation and the CME isn’t exactly fond of leaving witnesses. That’s what we are trying to prevent.”

Rizeal gives Felix a glare before turning her attention back to Adrian, “Are you really telling me you _don’t care_? You _know_ what happened, and you don’t care?”

“Look, Ri- Athena. Athena, there’s a _reason_ -“ And it’s suddenly cold, as if Felix was dunked into the lake and is only just now pulling himself out into the freezing wind.

Adrian _knows_. If not everything, most of it. Enough to guess.

He knows, and he doesn’t agree. He’s more worried about other things, thinking _let all the hybrid bastards die_. They don’t do any good after all. Just sit there and exude a disease that kills everybody else.

“Athena,” Felix’s voice is loud even to his own ears, a distinctive ringing following it as he speaks right over Adrian, “I need to steal you away real quick.”

Rizeal pauses, stares at him before giving a quick nod. Adrian looks up to the heavens for a second before waving his hand, “We can talk again later.”

There isn’t going to be a later.

Felix smiles, “Yeah, I’ll be around.”

He tugs at Rizeal and flashes the other man another grin; not that it matters, Adrian is already looking elsewhere, grabbing the nearest person and talking to them. Nothing about him says he’s worried, but yet another leaf falls into the lake.

Felix can’t even see the calm waters anymore, it’s more like a littered forest path than a sparkling lake.

Adrian is worried that they know, but it’s not possible. Nothing about it is possible because he was _just so careful_.

“We need to leave.” Felix repeats, making sure his voice stays soft and silent. Rizeal opens her mouth, glances around. Shuts it.

They rush out of crowd, dodging wayward elbows and clumsy feet on the hurry out. More people have gathered, nosy passersby curious on what the whole thing was about as if they haven’t heard the gossip. Some people join just to belong, to _pretend_ that they are doing something even if they aren’t.

The old lady is still on the bench, staring down at her open phone. Felix pulls Rizeal to one of the trees drooping over into the streets, the benches mere feet away. Close enough to still be involved, far enough to not actually interact.

The lake ripples, more leaves fall. There’s shouting but Felix doesn’t bother to listen. It’s unimportant really, everything about it. It’s all unimportant compared to the fact that-

“You told him.”

“He doesn’t know anything about Andreas’. It’s fine.” Rizeal whispers back, shoulders hunching and face darkening into a scowl.

“Yes, _but_ he knows.” Rizeal doesn’t understand, she’s still thinking of Adrian as the teen next door that helped her do her homework. No harm, no foul. Why would Adrian betray them after all?

Because there’s money to be had. Favors to be earned. The CME would be willing to bend for a price, and hybrids have always been a delectable price.

“I’ve been talking to Sam for years, so _yes_ they know bits and pieces. They’ll help us, Adrian might complain but they will.”

“No, _Athena_ , they won’t. And-“ Felix huffs, standing tall to peek around them. It’s not a conversation to have in public. None of this is, who knows who can listen in on them. It’s dangerous, especially with so many CME crawling around the park. “We need to leave.”

“Not yet.” Rizeal hisses, hand flying open before she clenches it shut and drags it closer to her torso. “I’m one of the speakers, I’m not just going to _vanish_. This could-“

Felix rounds on her, puffing up and glaring because, “No. We are leaving. It’s not worth it.” He peeks around them, at the carefully contained chaos. The lake ripples, bubbling as if the water was boiling underneath the leaves. “ _Trust me_.” He entreats.

Rizeal hesitates, glances back at everything. They still have the letters upon letters dictating all the speeches and concerns on the protest. Rizeal agonized over her own speech for hours, staying up later than the other two on the journey and waking up even earlier. It’s her last chance before Felix fully takes the reins and turns their rag tag team into renegades.

She folds and-

The lake becomes a geyser, spitting out boiling hot water and scattering the leaves of misgivings. There’s a scream, the earth rumbles and splits. Toxic yells echo, thoughts become a whirlwind and it’s the dam but worse because it’s _everyone_.

No one knows what happens, a hand was- _is_ raised.

The CME stand in the midst of chaos, the air shimmering with an unknown heat. There’s a tree shifting, growing and consuming everything. Roots reach out and then the earth is falling. The wind whistles and Felix tugs at Rizeal just as everything erupts

People shout,-

Felix gives another tug and Rizeal turns.

Someone cries out, this blood curdling scream-

The dam breaks by the gas station, fear this toxic little mix with the adrenaline already pulsing through Felix’s veins. He’s jittery, twitching as he drags Rizeal away. She’s stiff for a second, watching-

The earth bends again, this aching groan as it opens up-

And then she runs.

It’s a stampede within seconds. People running, screaming. The geyser spits out more steam, thoughts whirling by faster than Felix can catch them. Not that he wants to-

He can’t-

If he does, it mixes and mixes and-

The earth rumbles, even the grass reaching to trip them up. The sky _burns_ in a way it shouldn’t in the end of January.

The CME are there, reaching, grasping. Dangerous-

Something happened, the geyser spits out another bout of steam.

Felix bolts, feet crushing the moving earth beneath him.

A shove, a stumble-

Rizeal trips over somebody and there’s yet another scream-

There’s a kid-

There’s magic-

The disease-

Everything-

The world crumbles around Felix, the ground ceasing to exist and he just falls, falls, _falls_ -

_Need to get out-_

_Can’t believe-_

_This is why they need to **die-**_

_Monsters, all of them-_

_It hurts, it hurts-_

_Where’s mother? I can’t-_

_Move, move, move-_

_Why is this happening?_

_Why-_

Felix presses against-

Something. It’s something. Cold and hard, and it’s not the free air. Maybe it’s the ground, he can’t tell.

The geyser rumbles, a looming threat and Felix’s mind spins. Over and over, odd words echoing in and out and there’s footsteps and-

He shuts his eyes, breathes one large inhale-

Holds-

_Where’s my-_

_I can’t find anything-_

_Stop shoving-_

_Why-_

_Where-_

_What-_

_Hel-_

_Pl-_

_N-_

He releases, counts-

One, two, three, four, five-

Breathes. Doesn’t open his eyes, just focuses on the numbers and not the sounds, not the geyser, nothing but the cold thing he rest against and the numbers.

Over and over and over again.

The disease pulls at his mind like a taunt, echoing everything over and over again. Horribly loud.

The earth shakes.

It’s good, to notice the shaking earth.

A hand touches his. Soft, warm. Reaches up to rub at his shoulder. Over and over again, calm. Felix breathes and flickers his eyes open.

The world is chaos, people rush around him and he’s pressed against a wall. Rizeal stares down at him, eyes wide and worried and-

_It’s happening again. Too much and he’s not used to it anymore and-_

“I’m fine.” It’s a lie, but one they both need to hear. Rizeal gives a nod, even sparing a smile.

A kid runs past them, tugging on every adult they see and asking _“Have you seen my mother?”_

Why someone would bring a kid to a protest astounds Felix. The earth rumbles again, angry and tearing. The disease eats away at the world, an ecstatic joy that spreads far and wide.

The leech is probably jumping with joy.

“Let’s get back to the kiddo.” Felix suggests, shutting his eyes again and pressing his head back into the cool brick wall behind him.

Rizeal doesn’t even argue.


	14. Hiding Truth

**Erica,**

**I made a mistake. I’ve made… a lot of mistakes.**

**I’m alive though. I’m alive and I will do my best to come back to you and our child. I won’t be able to stay, I could never do that to you- but I promise I will come back, and I will be doing my damndest to be able to come back in the future and _stay_.**

**I love you.**

**Yours,**

**Forever**

———————————————

———————————————

———————————————

The morning after Ghost paraded his hand around. He didn’t say a word as he packed books upon books in tiny leather bags. He didn’t need to. The second Malakai saw the open cut on the fat boy’s hand he knew enough.

It was true. The bond was real, not a hallucination, not an impossibility. It was heart shatteringly _real_.

They left the same night.

Ghost filled the journey with talks and stories. Fairy tale stories where everything has a happy ending.

None of it was real, none of it stuck.

And now, they sit at the foot of Demsen. Low on rations, backs aching from hefting heavy books all the way through the wastelands. But they made it. They were alive, skinnier, starving, _and different_. But alive.

Ghost is a smaller boy now, murky brown hair with light blue eyes. Fat cheeks, but wiry frame. He drowns in the black cloak, similar to how the child would drown in the cloak. He peeks up, offering a bright smile as he says, “And here we are. Home sweet home, right?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. He doesn’t need to.

Malakai rarely replies. Eyes sitting on the monster warily as he watches the boy trot forward.

“You coming Midnight?” The words ring out, undeniably joyful and happy. “I have a place we can stay at. Not too big of a jump, just down the street some ways.”

It’s dark, the sun not even peeking over the mountains yet. Malakai shuts his eyes, imagines something else- anything else- and follows the little monster that controlled the strings to his fate.

“It’s not a really- It’s quite shabby really. All I could afford,” The face shifts for a second, skin darkening and eyes flashing green before settling back to their pale blue. It’s something Malakai starts to notice, his form shifting with certain words- as if trying to go to the correct form to match the words. “but it’s home. There’s a bakery too! Not that it is up and running, after all we’ve been gone for a minute but…”

A soft smile erupts on the boy’s face, something pure and happy and Malakai’s stomach revolts at the wrongness. “Don’t worry. I should still have the keys, somewhere.”

“Where are we going?” His throat hurts, a frozen ache that has yet to thaw.

“I told you, home.” The monster pauses to look back, eyes narrowing as if he could understand Malakai without the man talking. He can’t. There’s no way he could. Malakai clenches his right hand, he can barely feel the skin cracking.

“And after that… Well, we’ll see I guess.” Ghost offers a shrug, voice high and worriless. He waves a hand, the left one that still has the scab from the cut. It’s enough for Malakai to bite his tongue, teeth finding themselves in the familiar dents from before.

Silence consumes before Ghost shatters it once again, “We’ll probably head east. Maybe near that one town- Mavinsport? There’s a research facility there and… I need to verify something first.”

Malakai pauses, head jerking up before he blurts out, “Avelton.”

“What?” Ghost pauses, slowing down to look back at Malakai.

“I- There’s-“ He doesn’t know, but _Erica_ is there. _Erica._ He could go home, it’s so close. They could- They could-

But-

 _Ghost_ close to Erica was heart stopping. He could feel his blood freezing in his veins at the mere thought of the monster close to his wife. His _child_. They should avoid it like the plague, he should make sure the serial killer goes nowhere near his family.

Ghost is… not harmless, but not exactly threatening. The killer doesn’t even seem to think about things. Easy smiles and babbling words. A monster under a façade, but someone who sat in the middle of wastelands and talked about families and happiness with the most besotted look on his, her, face.

It’s a lie.

Malakai knows it’s a lie, the monster destroyed the very families he spoke of. He dismantled and threw them away as if they were nothing. But, when the winds howled around them and monsters cried out from the Qleehl Malakai was forced to listen.

To watch.

Once, he had asked the monster, “Why?”

It was an older man this time, gray hair and wrinkled skin and he stared at Malakai and said, “Because sometimes, you panic. There’s adrenaline rushing through your veins and you _don’t think_. Sometimes, it’s easier to do something than it is to not.”

Malakai never asked again.

Ghost always talked about different things, happier things. A cat called Midnight, a daughter called Annita, a wife called Elaine, a brother called Riozar.

It was easier to not think about those stories. Those little fairy tales that the serial killer created and portrayed. Malakai could never figure out what was real and what wasn’t, he could just match the faces to the stories as they popped up.

“Why Avelton?” They’re still walking, this slow pace amongst melting snow and sleeping buildings.

Malakai doesn’t dare to speak. Words flutter at the tip of his tongue, begging to be released. He just wants to go home and pretend none of this is real but going home means bringing Ghost with him and-

That’s a risk he doesn’t want to take.

“Nothing- Don’t worry about it.” The words are like frostbite, nipping straight to the point of things.

Ghost simply hums, picks up his pace and throws out, “We can stop by Avelton on the way.”

It’s the opposite of what Malakai wants to hear. Part of him, some minuscule part is ecstatic. The rest of him, well. He closes his eyes for a second and he just sees gravestones. Another funeral. His house empty and forsaken. It tastes sour, bitter.

The house Ghost brings them to is more like a two story store. The first level is a bakery, cobwebs attached to chairs and a faded menu above the counter. There’s stairs right by the counter and that’s where the _house_ is. If you could call such a shabby place a house. An apartment really.

There’s one bed, a couch, a broken fridge and the table has neat little stacks of paper.

Ghost shifts for a second, green eyes narrowing as his eye brows dip low. There’s a scowl replacing the smile and then just as quickly he’s back to the perky boy that led them to the house, “We probably can’t stay long. Just a night or two? Wouldn’t want to get caught.”

The monster tosses his bags on the couch before browsing through the stacks of paper. “Do you happen to have any money? I’m afraid I’m on the poor side.” He doesn’t even pause his perusal as he spits out the words.

Malakai watches for another second before dropping his load next the other bags on the couch and then he goes further into the little apartment. It’s small, one bedroom with a bathroom attached. The mirror is broken, bits of glass all over the counter and a bit of blood tainting the slivers.

Empty. Blank. Not really a home, not like how Ghost made it sound when he talked about it. There was nothing warm and comforting about it. The entire place was this empty black hole drenched in a consuming sadness. By the bed there’s a picture of a wedding, the glass broken and the picture stained.

Malakai peeks through on the drawers. It’s nothing comforting, an emptiness surrounded by bleak reality. There’s a ring in the nightstand drawer.

“You could have at least said, _well no, I don’t have any money. Thank you for asking_. Manners. It’s not that hard.” Ghost leans against the doorframe, watching as Malaki noses through _someone’s_ belongings. Malakai is certain it’s not actually Ghost’s belongings, but a victim. Yet another _victim_.

“Whose house is this?” It doesn’t matter, but a small part of him thinks it does. It’s another funeral, another empty home and one more torn apart family. He closes his eyes, breathes. It doesn’t matter.

“Mine.” Ghost shifts, fat cheeks, brown hair, green eyes. The one with the lake. The one _at_ the lake. Malakai remembers the magic, the lack of body. He’s pretty sure he knows what happened. There’s a ring in the drawer. There’s no one else. Ghost told him a story once, but he doesn’t remember how it went.

There were too many that followed afterwards.

“Are you any good at stealing?” There’s a smile on Ghost’s lips, eyes crinkling before he shakes his head, “Don’t answer. Stupid question. You’re with the CME. Of course you don’t steal. That’s a crime punishable by death for nephlims.”

Malakai blinks at him, broken hands curling in on themselves as he waits.

It’s cold in the little apartment. The air frozen and still. It’s nothing like the wastelands though, warm compared to the frigid winds that tore through them every time they started moving. Malakai missed his horse when they were walking. The 3 day journey on horseback was more like a week or two of walking.

That’s a lot of time to spend in the company of a killer.

“You should go to sleep. We’ll need to get moving in a few hours, see what we can scrounge up.” Ghost isn’t even looking at Malakai anymore, gaze soft and lost as he stares at the nightstand. It’s not the gaze of a killer.

Malakai shuts his eyes, turns away and lets himself forget the monster in the doorway. It’s an easy feat, one made easy of days and days of constant companionship.

Ghost vanishes by the time Malakai drags himself into the dusty bed. He doesn’t tuck himself under the covers, doesn’t dare to move a single thing. Instead, he lays down in his cloaks and boots and gloves. The ceiling is this dark expanse, little bumps here and there and there’s a huge stain in the right corner.

Sleep ambushes him between one heartbeat and another.

There’s no dream, there’s nothing except a small hand reaching out to jostle his shoulder. A soft voice buzzing about as it says, “Midnight? Midnight, time to go. Wake up.”

Ghost hovers above Malakai, bright blue eyes flickering between the pale blue and a deep brown. “Midnight.” Ghost gestures, cocking his head to the side as his form swings from the energetic boy and Nia.

Malakai blinks, hand rubbing at his forehead as if easing a headache. The gloves are thick, cold leather scrapes across his skin and there’s a moment where Malakai is tempted to remove the hefty thing but then he remembers and-

Well.

Leather was better than the unwelcome rot on his hand.

“Come on.” It seems she settled on Nia, the face blending back to the older woman. She smiles, always _smiling_. Malakai would never understand how such a killer could smile all the time. How could she be _happy_ or have any semblance of happiness.

He lets her drag him off the bed. She’s careful not to touch him after the initial jostle, this careful movement around him as she rushes him out of the apartment.

It’s bright. Not a cloud in the sky as the sun shines overhead. The snow is still melting on the sidewalk, an ugly gray color after days of use.

Ghost still looks like Nia, offering a little hum as she smiles and stands tall. “First stop is to get money. We aren’t going to last long without it. Any suggestions?” She doesn’t even look at him, already taking a step forward to walk in whatever direction she deems fit.

It’s like working with Mihr, a bit. Having someone that just walks in a direction without guidance. The sweet taste of the killer’s magic lingers, empty of everything but the taste itself.

“Ah, why am I even asking you? You don’t know. Unless you’d be up to going to the bank? But… no, that wouldn’t work.” Malakai follows the chatter box like a dog on a leash. His shoulders hunch over as he shoves gloved hands in the pocket of his coat.

“Could always offer manual labor or something. Or, do you have anything you could trade? I sold my last bit of jewelry back in NorDale so I’m fresh out of supplies.”

There’s a police station, lanterns dim as people bustle about. Malakai gives it a passing glance, wishing that was _his_ job rather than being a tracker for the CME. There’s papers stuck to the glass, some about a missing dog or cat and then-

Big black letters spell out **MISSING**. Underneath is a black and white picture of the fat man. Patrick Ateese.

Malakai freezes, staring at the face he’s seen so many times on the monster. Ghost takes a few steps before stopping to stare at Malakai. Her face morphs, biting at her lower lip as her brows dip low and she says, “He was going to die anyways.”

Malakai chokes, stomach doing summersaults before he closes his eyes. Takes a step, opens them and doesn’t spare the police station another glance. Ghost waits a second before turning around and announcing, “We should probably see if we can snag some breakfast. Oh, I’d love to have an omelet. With cheese and bacon? Nothing like the shit Ivory left for me. My husband- well.”

“Wouldn’t we need money first.” He’s not sure he could eat. Not with the way his stomach is twisting in on itself as if it’s an acrobat. 

“Yes, yes. But that’s the details. We should live a little. We’ve got weeks to worry about details. _Weeks_ I tell you. Do you know how far Mavinsport is from here? I’ve already- well.” She laughs, this croaking little thing before flashing a smile Malakai’s way.

It’s a reminder is what it is. Not a threat, just a slip of Ghost’s tongue. As if Malakai could forget that she was already on the east coast just a month ago. “Not in a rush this time?”

“No. No. Not really. I’m so _close,_ you see? Rushing now would just cause things to fall apart. The only reason I- well. I.” She pauses her words, as if thinking them through before speaking. It’s odd, with how rare she does that. Usually words just spill out like a waterfall. As if there’s nowhere else for the words to go but _out_. “Ivory told me she had some books that could be of use.”

Malakai just follows, not a word escaping his frozen throat. Ivory was… someone. He’s not sure if she was actually dead or alive. If she was one of the faces he didn’t know about; one of the ones that flicker before Ghost settles on another.

“Actually, I have an idea. You stayed at a hotel last time, right?” Ghost stops, twirling around on the ball of her foot. Her head is cocked, brown eyes wide. Malakai freezes, his entire body icing over as her attention focuses on him.

“Yes.” The word is a croak, barely loud enough to be heard but Ghost smiles anyways.

“Which one? We can probably get food there, you can say… I don’t know. Something with the CME. They won’t ask questions here, I-“ Her face pinches for a second, “I never saw any CME in this town before, and they were kind of panicking over you guys coming by. Plus, if Death told them you were dead we could probably guilt them into offering us some of their breakfast worst case scenario.”

Death. That’s-

No one would look at Mihr and think _Death_. No one that didn’t know anyways. It was another impossibility tacked onto everything else. Malakai swallows ice, feels it ripping his throat as the words spill out, “Death? How do you know him?”

Ghost blinks at him, wide innocent eyes that weren’t even _hers_. “I… Someone, worked with him. Well. Not with, but we had to call him? The little dead boy, right? Gives me the creeps whenever I see him.” She even gives a false shake, a timid smile falling onto her lips before she says, “C’mon. Food. Hopefully warm food. Eggs, bacon, maybe even ham. Think of it.”

Malakai stares at the concrete sidewalk, as if it could possibly have any of the answers to his questions. It doesn’t, the frozen slab just offers a pathway to somewhere else. He’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else. Even Mihr with his rot.

Ghost killed someone from the CME before.

They don’t have records of that. Ghost had only killed the odd body here and there, hookers or the homeless. The occasional mother or father, sometimes a dear husband or wife. They have no records of the child she killed, or the CME member.

It’s frightening.

To think of how many people they _missed_. How many people the monster killed and they don’t even _know_ about.

Patrick was missing after all. _Missing_. Not dead.

Unless Malakai reports it, the man will always be missing. Maybe they’ll count him as a suspected deceased but there will be no proof. Just another face amongst the many faces Ghost has.

“Midnight?” She acts so innocent. Friendly. Like sitting next to him with a fire lit in front of them. Like telling fantasy stories that she may or may not have made up. Sometimes there is a childlike innocence in her, something sweet.

It’s unnatural.

“It’s-“ His voice hurts, the vibration tearing apart old wounds that he’s forced to swallow around. “I don’t remember the name. An old Inn, not too far away from the maid road.”

“Ah, we can try Harbors Inn first then? I think that’s the closest one.” She gives a nod before turning around and heading off.

Malakai follows like a shadow, dogging her every step as he hunches into himself. It’s a sight, he’s sure, to see a six foot person following like an obedient puppy to someone that’s half a foot smaller. Not worse than following Mihr around though.

Harbors Inn ends up being the Inn Malakai and Mihr had booked. It’s a small place, a fireplace in one corner with couches splayed about in front of it. There’s an old man at the counter who perks up as soon as the door opens. “Hello! Welcome to- Mr. Lanerri! I thought- Your friend said you died.”

The old man just stares at them with wide eyes, frozen in spot as he watches them. Ghost isn’t even phased, she just walks up with a bright smile and says, “Ah, misunderstanding. See, he- brave man that he was- went after that awful little serial killer and. Well, he didn’t find who he was looking for, but he found me. See, I got lost a bit ago. Dog ran away, you see?”

The old man doesn’t even blink, eyes focusing entirely on Malakai who shuffles behind the monster. “I was…”

He could say something. Say, _hey the serial killer is right in front of you_. He could give off a warning, just as he could have ran away earlier but didn’t. The cut flickers in his mind like a ghost. He could, and then once the CME gets word Ghost would be back on the chopping block.

The letters burn into his side from the pocket they are stuffed in. A reminder, as much as anything is.

“We haven’t eaten for a while, and all of my coins are gone. I was hoping we could snag a meal before I contact the CME?” He can’t smile. His face a sheet of ice as the lies scrape across his tongue. It’s bitter in a way most things aren’t.

“Ah- Yes, yes. Of course. Do you need me to contact anyone? There’s a nurse a few houses over that I can fetch?” The old man gives a nod, stepping out from behind the counter. He approaches them with stilted steps, one leg lagging before the other and he gives a soft smile, “I’m happy you made it back alive. Barely anyone does- not with the wastelands. To easy to get lost.”

“No nurse will be needed, I’ve got a dab hand at healing myself so no issues.” Ghost just beams, not even hesitating to let the words float into the air. Malakai’s hands burn, as if there was a fire mere inches away melting the rot. It’s not an actual burn, it’s never been an actual burn. How can something burn when you can’t feel anything?

“Good, good. If you will, follow me? We don’t have anything extravagant, but there’s tea and some pastries left over.” The old man gestures to a door by the fireplace, “Breakfast ended an hour ago so we’re cleaning everything up right now, but there should be a little bit left.”

“Oh,” There’s a string of disappointment in that sigh before Ghost goes, “that’s fine. Anything is appreciated. Thank you, truly.”

Malakai follows like a shadow as the old man leads them to the door. On the other side there’s a counter with a kettle and few edible items scattered about. A few tables litter the room with chairs tucked in tight. Candles rest on either end of the counter and on every table, bathing the room in a soft amber light.

There’s a lady sweeping the floor, she peeks up to watch them before saying, “We aren’t serving anymore.”

“No, it’s fine Matillda. They just got back from the wastelands, and this one,” The old man pats at Malakai’s shoulder, “is with the CME.”

Matillda stares at them before shrugging, “Just don’t make a mess.”

Malakai waits, tense as the old man laughs, “I’m sure they won’t.” Ghost offer a hum of agreement before the man turns and adds, “Now, if you guys need anything. Please let me know. I- The CME does great things for us, it’s the least I could do to help one of their agents.”

Malakai makes a choked noise, vocal cords unable to make a single sound because _that’s a lie_. He’s letting a serial killer run loose, free. Ghost could do anything and Malakai wouldn’t do a _damn thing_. And the old man is _thanking him_. Ghost doesn’t hesitate, “We truly appreciate it. And don’t worry about _Mr. Lanerri,_ I’ll make sure he gets back to the CME safe and sound.”

There’s that laugh again, the old man’s face lighting up before nodding and saying farewell.

Matillda doesn’t even glance at them as they pick their seats. Ghost scurries over to the counter, grabbing three pastries before she plops down in the seat. “Would you like one?” She offers one of the apple turnovers, hand outstretched as she bites into the other apple turnover.

Malakai stares at the offered pastry for a second before grabbing it. He probably should have taken off the glove. Most definitely should have, there’s glaze on the leather now. But then-

He hasn’t looked at his hands since they left the cabin in the middle of the Qleehl. Disgusting, he’s sure- but he’d rather have soaking wet leather than stare at his rotting hand. Ghost handed him two books on frostbite when they left, he had put them in his bag and didn’t look at them again.

He probably should. Or at least-

He should at least _try_.

“Hey, uh-“ Ghost falters, her voice hanging before she gestures to her face. “Do you want me to get a napkin?”

Malakai blinks at her, hand frozen in the air with the apple turnover. Ghost simply stares with wide brown eyes before gesturing to her face again, “Your nose?”

It’s reflex, matching her gesture with one of his own. His left hand touches his nose and when he looks down he can see blossoming red on black leather. It’s an afterthought, that his nose is damp. Then he wonders if he can taste the copper flavor with the sweet pastry.

“Napkin?” Ghost grabs a napkin and offers it again. Malakai just stumbles into grabbing it, holding it close to his nose as h leans slightly back and-

It figures.

“Is that… normal? Are you prone to nosebleeds? I just- I haven’t noticed.” Ghost rambles, grabbing another napkin just in case. As if he might bleed and bleed and bleed.

He might.

His mind is an empty wasteland with the stillness of the Qleehl.

“No.” His voice is muffled, but the word slips out easy. Nothing holds it back. Suddenly, Ghost isn’t the most terrifying thing there is. “I’ve never had a nosebleed before.”

“It’s probably the climate. You know, cold- winter. I heard this area makes the easterners prone to odd symptoms. Like nosebleeds.”

Malakai stares at the ceiling and all he can think is that it’s not the climate.

The rest of breakfast slides by without him noticing. He keeps reaching up to touch his nose and Ghost confiscates a handful of napkins as if that would help. Matillda just eyes them warily as they escape.

The winds have picked up again, frigid torrents tearing through the streets. Malakai wraps his coat tighter against his frame, broken hands clutching at the thick fabric. Ghost doesn’t even pause, she just charges out into the wind as she calls out, “Come on, it’s so nice out here!”

Malakai just hunches over more, lips thin and pressing tightly into one another. She peeks at him and laughs, “It’s really not that bad. Like, a wee bit cold- but that’s it. C’mon. We have coins to find!”

He closes his eyes for a split second before sighing. It feels like defeat when he takes a step to follow her. His entire being just seems to deflate and give up. As if there’s nothing left to fight. He touches his nose, wondering if it is damp again or if his mind is playing tricks on him.

Probably the latter.

“I’m thinking, maybe we could stop by the police station. Aiden- Well. He’d- No. I keep forgetting.” The monster glances back at him, eyes crinkling as she tells him, “I’m very forgetful.” She says it as if it is a joke. As if he should laugh and tease her and-

Maybe if he was forgetful he would.

He’s not though and he doubts he ever will forget who she is. What she is.

It’d be easy too though, with how she acts. When she sticks to one form, it’d be so easy.

Ignorance is bliss, they say.

Their walking past Dangerous Drink when suddenly someone calls out, “Malakai?”

He stops, dirty snow clinging to his boots. Ghost takes a few steps before realizing he stopped and then she turns.

“Malakai? Is that- I was-“ They reach to touch his arm and suddenly Malakai can move. His entire being shatters as he turns and-

Kate. That’s her name, Kate Evanine. He worked with her a few times, not for any criminals but for searching for clues. Finding answers to mysterious events. She would record and report, everything and anything and if there was high traces of magic they’d call a tracker. Malakai preferred those kinds of jobs than the tracking of criminals.

“Ah-“ He licks his lips. This is a mistake.

“Mihr reported that you died.” Kate finally says, large blue eyes beseeching an answer. Ghost steps closer, an odd smile curling on her lips.

The air is sweet. Such a soft sweetness.

“It was- He-“ The words choke Malakai, clogging his throat and preventing anything from escaping. There was so much he could say, so much he _should_ say. _I found Ghost_. _Ghost is here_. He can’t though. Ghost creeps up, sneaking her arm into one of his as she raises a hand,

“Hi, I don’t believe we met? I’m Nia.”

Kate barely gives her a glance before staring at Malakai again, “What happened? Because Mihr said you went into the wastelands after Ghost.”

 _I did_. _I did and I found Ghost_. Malakai opens his mouth, throat convulsing around the lies and the truths and he can’t breathe. His lungs scream, widening and begging for something as he just stands there. Shattered bits of himself keeps falling into the dirty snow to be lost forever.

“Oh, yes. That-“ It’s Ghost again, persistently _there_. Malakai’s flesh crawls, the coat burning where she presses against it. “He did, thankfully he didn’t get very far, but he found me and we were able to get back. All in one piece. We were just about to contact the CME actually-“

Kate finally stares at Ghost.

Malakai waits for everything to fall apart. For him not to be the only thing that shatters. Ghost stays stubbornly in one piece, cocking her head to the side and smiling a soft smile that doesn’t actually belong to her.

Kate swallows, looks up and then gives this aborted nod as she says, “Ah. Yes. I-“ Another glance at Ghost and Malakai can feel it. Everything piecing together slowly in her mind like a puzzle. “What’s your name again?”

Ghost blinks at her, releasing Malakai’s arm to reach out with an open hand. “Nia.”

It’s horribly sweet, a clinging sweetness. Malakai can’t breathe as it fills the air.

Kate hesitates, eyes flashing between the two before offering a timid smile and saying, “And your last name? For- I just need to inform the CME.”

Malakai doesn’t even look at Ghost. He doesn’t need to, he can already _feel_ it. The magic builds, overpowering in its taste and all Malakai can hear is, _the CME can’t know. They can’t._

He doesn’t need the magic to figure out Ghost’s solution. He doesn’t need to hear the monster’s soft, “Oh. Well, I’m Nia Janne.” He doesn’t need to see Ghost grab Kate’s hand.

It’s quick, what happens.

A shift faster than the eye can see and suddenly Ghost is the tall man with the scars and he’s got a hand wrapped around Kate’s mouth. Kate’s eyes bug, darting back and forth and-

Malakai worked with her. Several times. She was a bit cold hearted at times, but she joked around and laughed and she was, or at least a year ago she was, dating some guy called Evan. Or Devin. He couldn’t remember for the life of him.

It’s sour now, the magic, creeping up into the sweetness and corrupting it. A horrible sour filled with guilt and apologies.

Kate’s body crumbles to the ground a second later.

Right by the alley way the first girl died in.

It’s quiet, horribly quiet. The silence suffocating and Malakai just watches.

Ghost simply looks up, peeks around as if he’s just realizing that they weren’t hiding. There’s a shrug and then,

“We need to hide the body.”

The body.

Because now there is a body.

So they hide the body, and bits and pieces of Malakai fall into the dirty snow to be lost forever.

Because now there is a body.

“Just think, we don’t need to worry about coins anymore.”


	15. Killing Touch

“Do you think you aren’t a good fit for the officer rating?” Mrs. Dellia crosses her legs and leans forward.

Odaix shifts in her seat, fingers tapping together, “It’s just not what I thought it would be.” That’s an understatement. She imagined it would have been like being a police officer, not like being an executioner. Instead, she’s the one holding an axe she can’t bear to swing.

“What did you think it would be?” Mrs. Dellia’s voice is soft, sweet. Non-threatening.

“People weren’t supposed to _die_.” Odaix’s voice trembles as she forces out the words.

She stares at the other woman sitting behind a large fancy oak desk. Mrs. Dellia has her hand folded in front of her, glasses perched at the tip of her nose and the sweetest of smiles. Odaix squirms, feet tucking behind the legs of the chair and shoulders slumping forward.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“I just- can’t I transfer? I don’t want to work with that…” _Monster_ , Odaix’s mind fills. She doesn’t say the word though. It’s bitter on her tongue, a curse that she wouldn’t put on anyone.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Mrs. Dellia even _looks_ sorry. Odaix fiddles with her fingers and looks down at her lap. Mrs. Dellia pauses for a moment, giving a soft hum before continuing, “But that’s why we are here. The CME tries it’s best to fit people that best suites them. Unfortunately, officer training is incredibly expensive so we are very restricted on where we can place you. What are your concerns regarding Mihr?”

Odaix pauses, shoulders holding up the world and gaze unseeing. She rubs at her thighs for a second before looking up, “Mihr is- I don’t think he’s following procedures properly. We- we’re supposed to be… I don’t know. Containing people until their trial? _He kills them_. No questions asked. The last two,” She bites her lip, swallowing before forcing the words out, “criminals we dealt with, he just killed them.”

“And you don’t agree with his actions.” It’s not even a question. Mrs. Dellia shifts in her chair before writing something down.

“No.” The word is a croak, and even Odaix can tell it’s the wrong thing to say.

Mrs. Dellia gives a hum before, “Unfortunately, Mihr followed the proper procedures. However, we will ask him to go a… gentler approach and to explain things better for your understanding.” It’s the last thing Odaix wants to hear. Mihr probably wouldn’t care, he’d just give her a cold glare and then do whatever, but her distaste for their _procedure_ is bad attention.

“Meanwhile, I will put in a request for the CME to look for another position for you. I heard the experimental prison could use some more guards so that might be a possibility.”

The floor drops from beneath Odaix’s feet and all she hears is Mihr’s smooth voice saying _they’ll find a way to make you useful._

“Uhm- I can- Maybe I just haven’t given it enough time.” There’s a chance Odaix misunderstood Mihr. There’s a chance, just like there was a chance that she was wrong when he said _doctors kill people too_. She isn’t going to take it.

Mrs. Dellia startles, giving a bright smile as she says, “Oh, are you sure? I’ll make a note of it anyways, just in case you change your mind later. Anyways, I think that will be all for today unless there’s anything else?”

Mrs. Dellia stands up as she talks, reaching over to offer her hand. Odaix forces a quivering smile before taking the psychiatrists hand. “That’s everything. Thank you for seeing me.”

Odaix leaves the cozy room with its warm light and comfy chairs and goes straight back to the office that Mihr claimed as his own a few days ago. Since then the office has been overrun with casefiles and medical books. _Medical books_ , as if Mihr actually used them.

Sometimes she does see him use them, such as now. The boy is perched at his desk, a book open in front of him with a disarray of files around him. He doesn’t even look up at her as she enters the office, instead he just picks up one of the files and waves it at her. “Oh good, you’re back. Read this.”

He flips a page in the book as Odaix walks over to grab the file. She freezes, fingers faint over the file as she peeks at the upside down image in the book. It’s a skeletal knee, little lines pointing at each part with a scribble of words that probably explain it. “Are you-“

Mihr looks up and pushes the file closer to Odaix. “This is going to be your case. Read it. Learn it. Solve it.” With that, Mihr releases the file forcing Odaix to clutch desperately at the file to keep its contents from scattering onto the floor. Another page turns and Odaix swallows the words bubbling up in her chest.

There is no _solving_. Not with what Mihr does. There’s killing. _Killing_. Mihr expects her to kill whoever is in this case file. She looks up, watching Mihr as he simply reads about _knees_ for whatever reason. No, she knows the reason, or a possible reason. Mihr’s limp is noticeable now, his gait swaying drastically with every step. 

Odaix offers one last glance at Mihr before slinking to the other side of the office with the folder grasped tightly to her chest. She didn’t want to even look inside of the folder. To put a name and a face to the unknown criminal, _victim_ , within her grasp. Another page turns, the soft crinkling of paper is the only sound in the quiet room.

She pauses, closes her eyes a take a breath in before staring down at the folder. Her case. Her victim. Another corpse waiting to be made. Or maybe- maybe she can prove whoever this is as innocent? Or get them sent to the prison instead? Surely the prison would be a better alternative, whatever it entailed.

Flipping open the folder she finds herself staring at a black and white portrait of a boy smothered in freckles with his hair in a bun. The bit of outfit she can see in unmistakably part of the CME uniform with a clasp dangling a rope from the boy’s color to the left. To the left of the portrait are the easy identifiable marks such as name, Aizel Thyre; age, 19; rate, Information Specialist; magic, white; type, unknown; on and on.

It’s the same file Mihr had her read a few weeks ago. The boy has been UA for over seven months, the last place he had been stationed was some research facility called Dracein and…

Odaix flips to the other side of the paper, skimming over the words. There was activity of someone using his credentials in Laqrea two weeks ago. One of the big laboratories in the city had notified the CME because he was asking odd questions regarding some group called Ashei.

She peeks over at Mihr, watching as he flips back a few pages before freezing with his hand hovering over the page as if he is debating the usefulness of whatever page he turned to. “Are we going east?” The question floats in the air. She’s never been to the far east, supposedly cars are much more common on that side of the kingdom where even some of the poorer folk have them.

“In a few days.” He’s apparently dissatisfied with whatever page it was he turned to since he flips another page. Odaix looks down at the open case in her hand, Aizel’s gray eyes stare back at her.

“Is it just for this case?” She hopes not, if it is than everything would end so much faster. She’s going to need time if she’s-

Odaix pauses, glancing back down at the boy marked for death because he went UA. The air is suffocating, smothering her with every small inhale and she waits. Just long enough for the words to stop moving and for her own picture to stop flickering in place of Aizel’s. She shuts the folder.

“Did he do any crime?” The words crawl out of her mouth without her permission. Mihr doesn’t even need to say anything for her to figure out the answer. _Abandoned place of duty_. She glances down at the folder before tucking it underneath one of the medical books that somehow found its way to her desk.

She thinks back to Malakai and surely, just as it was then, this is Mihr warning her not to fuck up. Simple, to the point and showing her the consequences without actually saying anything.

Mihr turns another page and then, “There’s a healer in Laqrea that’s making mages.”

Odaix blinks, “Mages?”

Mihr takes a moment as he scans whatever page he’s on before saying, “It’s a ritual where a nephlim will get Hasin to _share_ the disease with someone and let them use it. Really, it just kills them faster.”

“Why would-“

“Because then they can use the disease like any normal nephlim could. It’s an interesting ritual, rather blatant if anyone knows what to look for.” Mihr suddenly bursts into movement, dropping the book onto his desk as scavenges through his folders before pulling out a notebook and flipping to some random page.

Odaix stretches up as if that would let her see whatever it is that Mihr is scribbling down. It doesn’t, all she can see is the top of the pen moving as his arm swallows the paper he’s writing on. She opens her mouth, a question dancing on the tip of her tongue before she freezes.

She offers one last look before slouching into her chair. Her finger traces the binding of the books stacked on her desk. It’s an odd variety, the bottom one claiming to be a _Dictionary of all Toxic Plants in Latrea_ , followed by _Basic Biology_ , then there’s the edge of her folder and the final book is about _The Human Body Bone Structure_.

They weren’t there yesterday. Actually, none of the books or folders were in the office when they got it four days ago and it certainly wasn’t Odaix that moved them into the small space.

She slides the bottom book out from underneath of the pile and thumbs through the first few pages. There are intricate drawings on every page depicting some kind of flower or plant, most of them are splashed with some sort of color and a detailed explanation on the left hand side. She pauses on one page depicting a small plant with tiny red berries.

At the bottom of the page there’s this neat scrawl saying _Mimics the effect of the disease when touched. Ingested causes the mammal to seize and bleed out of multiple orifices. Autopsy shows something similar to what happened to Nicholas’ council when vast amounts of the disease was found in their bloodstream. Five berries can kill a 170 pound man within four hours when ingested._

Odaix shuts the book and slides it next to the other two. Staring at the wooden desk would be better than reading whatever Mihr wrote in a book about _toxic plants_. Not that it matters because a second later a girl pokes her head into the office and says, “Your presence is requested at the police station.”

There’s a pause where the only noise is pen on paper before Mihr’s pen clicks against his desk. The girl at the door gives a quick nod before vanishing into the hallway and leaving Odaix alone with Mihr. The man doesn’t even spare her a glance as he heads out the door. Odaix scrambles after him in a flurry of hurried movement.

He always just _leaves_. He never says anything just gets up and goes and just expects Odaix to follow blindly. Not that it’s a wrong expectation. She does just follow him blindly, even when her skin itches at not knowing. Luckily for her, it doesn’t take much to catch up with the short guy. Just a few rushed strides and she’s walking right next to him.

“Do you know why we’d be requested?”

Mihr sways, holding his left leg awkwardly straight as he walks. “Did she tell me why they requested me?”

Odaix bites her lip and curls her hands into her pockets. Neither of them are in uniform, Mihr had told her that the uniform isn’t _helpful_ in his line of work. Their line of work. Apparently people get skittish when the CME is involved and it hinders their work. The other rates though, they are usually required to wear the uniform.

Civilian clothes are comfier either way so Odaix can’t complain too much. At least she has _pockets_ when she isn’t in uniform.

They’re outside when Mihr says, “Someone probably turned themselves in. There’s an occasional case like that. Doesn’t happen often, usually it’s because they realized they messed up and are hoping for a more lenient sentence.”

“But it’s not like they _know_ what the CME does.” She didn’t. Sure, there are rumors, but everything has rumors. Just because people hint at it doesn’t mean it is true, even if in this instance it _is_ and Odaix wishes she listened.

“No, you are just ignorant.” Odaix’s lips thin into a white line at the words. Mihr doesn’t even act like he said anything. He just keeps hobbling out of the building and into the open street and straight towards the police station. Odaix follows at a much slower pace, shoulders hunching as she sulks behind the smaller man.

Noise explodes from the police station when Mihr opens the door. A phone rings somewhere inside, calm voices chatter into oblivion where Odaix isn’t able to even differentiate one voice from another. The door slides close before Odaix can grab it, leaving her outside the glass with the freezing wind whipping into her body.

Mihr’s inside, walking straight to the desk. Probably saying something or other. Probably demanding something in that soft monotone that sounds more robotic than alive. The secretary, a burly man, looks up. There’s a smile, warm and welcoming.

Odaix’s fingernails dig into her palm. She takes a second, simply watching as she forced herself to breathe deeply. On the exhale she grabs the door and follows her supposed mentor.

“-ME. I was informed that we are needed?” The burly man’s smile falls with every word Mihr says. There’s a slight cringe before he stands up and forces another smile. His eyes don’t crinkle and everything just falls flat.

“Right. Ah, and you are?” The man looks up, motioning at Odaix.

“Hi. I’m, uh- Odaix Iaoth. I’m an officer of the CME.” Odaix offers the biggest smile she could muster up. Something hopefully warm and welcoming and non-threatening. Nothing that says _hey we are here to probably kill someone. You should stop us._

The man doesn’t even blink. “Credentials?”

“She’s in training. I am assuming the reason we are requested was because a nephlim turned themselves in?” Mihr’s voice rings out and Odaix finds herself flushing. Technically, she should have credentials already. She’s been out of training long enough to receive the badge dictating rate and years in the CME.

The thing is, your credentials depend on your rate and she’s been trying to jump rates ever since Mihr killed the man in the prison so many weeks ago.

The man frowns down at her, but thankfully lets it slide. “Yes. Healer, she’s locked up in the back. Didn’t want him to be in the communal area.”

“Has she caused any issues?” The secretary, probably not a secretary as Odaix stares at the man’s _police_ uniform, opens up one of the drawers in his desk and digs around for something. He lets out a soft hum before responding to Mihr with a,

“Not really. She came in, reported an accident and was very understanding when he moved her to the cells in the back.”

“Why was she brought to a cell?” Odaix can’t even stop the words even if she wants to. Mihr gives her a quick glance and all she can hear is _you are just ignorant_. Maybe she is, but at the same time people shouldn’t just be brought straight to a jail cell after coming to the police because of an _accident_.

The burly man snorts as he leads them further into the building, “She admitted to committing a murder. I wasn’t going to just let her sit in the front.”

“Did she say where? We’ll need to inform the CME about any possible bodies that are carrying the disease in case it’s in a public area.”

The man shrugs, opening a door before motioning at Odaix and Mihr to slip inside. Odaix pauses, giving a glance toward the man before stepping inside. Her mind simply echoes a long hallway and the beeping of a machine. “She didn’t really say. I was more worried about keeping the disease away from everybody else.”

“Ah- are you-“ The girl in the cell stands up, hands dusting off her pants before twisting into themselves. “Are you the CME?”

Mihr smiles, perfectly polite and gentle. He looks like a kid, eyes crinkling in the corners and hair softly falling on his forehead and all of it is a _lie_. “Yes, we are just here to escort you back to our actual office before we figure out everything that happened.”

There’s an itch in Odaix’s side telling her it’s wrong. It sounds believable, truthful but when has Mihr ever been so? She remembers the body of the arsonist up in Nasei and whilst she could excuse that since he was actively _attacking_ or whatever his magic was doing, there was also Jaquin. She wants to believe, she _wants_ to trust.

“Yes! That’s, um. So, the thing is. I might have over reacted? Or- I panicked.” The woman wrings her hands together as she cringes. Odaix takes a step forward as Mihr tilts towards the guard.

“Is there anything you need from us?” His voice is silky soft. He’s probably still smiling and giving off that unthreatening innocent aura of his.

“What did you do?” Odaix keeps her voice low as she creeps closer to the cell. The guard still has the key, it jangles behind her as he moves it around, so it isn’t like she can unlock the cage. The woman, _healer_ , just blinks at Odaix for a second before jerking forward.

“No, we didn’t put her in the system. She told us flat out that she was a nephlim so I contacted you as soon as we got her away from the general populace.” The man’s voice booms in the background in contrast to the nervous jitter of the woman in front of Odaix.

“It’s not- It wasn’t supposed to be _bad_. I just- I can’t afford one of those medical licenses, you know? And- and he was dying _anyways_. He’d just die slower if I hadn’t done anything. I could have,” The woman’s knuckles go white as she clutches her hands together, bracing them in front of her as if they were a shield. “I could have saved a life.”

Mihr steps closer, the click of his boots on the concrete floor echoing in the small room. He reaches for the door with quick, sure movements. The key jangles from his grasp as he unlocks the door. “Please take a step back.”

Odaix takes a quick step back without thinking as the woman also steps away from the bars of the cell. The door swings open with a harsh squeak and Mihr motions for the other healer to follow. “I am going to need you to show me where the incident happened, so I hope you will continue to cooperate and there will be no issues.”

The woman jerks her head in an awkward nod before spouting, “Yes- I. I can do that. It’s just… Not exactly neat and-“

Mihr’s already turning to leave, handing the keys over to the guard as he says, “Thank you for notifying us. I will have the CME send a leech over to prevent any outbreaks from occurring thanks to this incident.”

“Why would he have died anyways?” The woman turns, her gaze dragging away from Mihr to land on Odaix. Really, she looks so young. Wide green eyes and ruffled black hair. Her makeup is a tad smeared and her clothes mussed up but obviously _new_.

“He was poor.” She says it like that explains everything. It doesn’t, but maybe Odaix just isn’t thinking the correct way to _see_ the answer. After all, she’s apparently i _gnorant_ anyways. Who knows what she’s missing.

“I don’t-“

“Hospitals are expensive and his heart was failing.” The woman’s eyes are wide and desperate. Begging for something, Odaix didn’t know what. Not to die? Did the lady even know what the CME did? What was most likely going to happen?

“Come along now, I need to lock up the space now.” The guard, policeman, whatever he is waves towards the door. Mihr’s already gone, vanishing somewhere into the depths of the small police station. The woman startles, eyes snapping to the man before giving a rushed nod.

Odaix raises a hand, debating on offering some kind of comfort, any kind of comfort. Not that the other girl seems to notice, instead she’s taking broken steps out of the room and following the ghost trail of Mihr. Which might have been a good thing, Odaix can’t help but remember that the woman is a healer. Just like Mihr is a healer.

Mihr’s waiting in the front portion of the building with his hands clasped in front of him. He cocks his head to the side as the woman and Odaix stop in front of him. “I will need you to lead the way to where the incident happened, miss…?”

“Oh! Evie. Are you, are you sure you need to go to where it happened? It’s just-“

Mihr smiles, raises a hand to gesture for Evie to lead the way as he says, “Yes. We need to make sure that it will not cause an outbreak to happen in the neighborhood.”

Evie shifts her gaze over to Odaix before giving another jerky nod.

The place Evie leads them to is a small alleyway a few blocks from the police station. The alley itself doesn’t look suspicious, a large dumpster on one side but otherwise entirely inconspicuous until Evie open up one of the doors and it leads to a stairwell. Mihr doesn’t even hesitate to follow Evie down the dark, murky hole but Odaix finds herself faltering to take the first step.

It’s.

Well, it’s dark. The stairs look stained and there’s not even a hint of light at the bottom. The ceiling caves in after the first step and whilst Odaix wasn’t _tall_ she doesn’t like the ceiling being so short. At the same time, she doesn’t trust Mihr being alone with the woman either. Silly, to be distrustful of her partner rather than the self-proclaimed murderer.

Then again, she hasn’t seen _Evie_ kill. Mihr has killed on multiple occasions and it seems to literally be his job. His only job. _Her_ only job.

She takes a step forward and follows.

There’s an eerie echo with every step, something that bounces off the walls over and over until one noise is indistinguishable to the next. Odaix actually loses the other two, their shadows blending with all of the other shadows of the darkened stairwell.

There’s a pause, an unsettling silence and then a sharp creaking noise as the hallway is flooded with a dim light.

“Well, this- this is it. Home sweet home.” Evie’s voice is mutilated by the echoes; almost demonic in how it sounds. There’s a hum and then the shadows in front of the light shift, a few steps and-

Odaix rushes, skipping past one of the steps to stumble into the room before the door fell shut. Inside it’s quaint. There’s a few demolished couches splayed about, a lawn chair on the far side and then there’s a table that teeters on three legs, the fourth snapped off before it hit the ground.

There’s a man in the lawn chair, and a couple sprawled across one of the couches. The couple just lazily look up, giving a smile before freezing at the sight of Odaix and Mihr. “Found more strays, Evie? You’ve barely been gone two hours.”

The boy part of the duo smacks the girl’s arm, hissing something at her that caused laughter to erupt from her. Evie simply flails a hand in the air before saying, “Well. They aren’t-. It’s just. He’s _dead_.”

Suddenly the couple is quiet, their eyes trained on the trio in front of the door. Mihr’s already taking a step closer to the man in the lawn chair.

“Evie, what did you do?” It’s the boy talking this time. He stands up from the couch and takes a step forward. Odaix swallows before announcing,

“We are with the CME and are here to investigate the murder of-“ Her voice dies in her throat as Mihr turns around to send a nasty glare her way. Odaix’s entire body seems to shrivel up and decay at that exact second, her voice giving one last croak in her throat before it buried itself in its living grave.

The couple freezes, eyes wide as they watch the trio. Evie’s entire body seems to tense and fold into itself. Mihr gave a small huff before continuing to make his way to the man in the chair. What is most definitely a _body_ in the chair since the man hasn’t made a single move since they got there.

“Look, whatever Evie did we had no part in it.” It’s the girl’s clipped voice echoing in the space. She’s tugging at the boy, a wary gaze flickering between Mihr and Odaix. Evie simply flinches, her shoulders crawling closer to her knees as she caves into herself.

“When we get back we’ll need to contact the police station to deal with the deceased.” Mihr doesn’t even spend a minute with the man, simply checking his pulse heading back. “I’m curious to what you were trying to do, Miss Evie.”

“He was-“ Evie starts, her head jerking up to stare at the smaller man. Mihr is still giving a soft smile as he opens the door and gestures for Evie to lead the way. The couple is still frozen on the couch and Odaix just stands there trying to figure out _what_ she is even supposed to do.

It’s technically a crime scene. They are supposed to contact the police, but Mihr already said they’d do that. The couple is technically possible witnesses to the crime but at the same time, Evie already _confessed_. The woman isn’t even arguing, simply shuffling out of the door and leading Mihr away from the body.

“We aren’t- We weren’t involved in any of that. You guys know that, right?” The boy is timid in his words, falling back onto the couch to watch with wide eyes.

Odaix opens her mouth, to say what she doesn’t know but-

“Odaix.” Mihr stands at the open door, pale gaze fixating on Odaix when she startles. Mihr waits for a second before dipping out and Odaix finds herself following him like a lost pup. She offers one last glance at the tense couple on the couch before the door slides shut and she’s once again in the dark stairwell leading up to the alley.

She doesn’t pause this time, rushing up the stairs as if her own personal demon is haunting her footsteps. That’s a lie, her own personal demon is in front of her. Mihr reaches out as soon as Odaix is at the top of the stairs. Just this soft touch of the hand to get Evie to pause as he says, “If you could, please wait a minute.”

Evie just nods, her entire body a tense line. Mihr drops his hand, and oh Odaix knows what’s happening. What has _already_ happened. It’s downright homicide. There’s nothing else to it, and the kicker is that Evie knows nothing about it. It’s just a simple gesture after all.

It’s a gesture Evie herself could make, after all she is _also_ a healer. Same magic type, just she doesn’t know that Mihr is also a healer. She doesn’t know Mihr is also a killer.

“Did he find you?” Odaix closes the door behind her as Mihr talks to his victim.

“Not- not exactly? I mean, he heard. He was originally trying to get a heart transplant, but then the hospital told him how expensive the procedure would be and- I had books depicting how to do it. It shouldn’t have been that hard.”

“You were trying to do a heart transplant?” Odaix blurts out the words as she freezes. That entire thing- what, Evie dealt in black-market _transplants_?

“No!” Evie waves her hands in the air as if she could dismiss the words. “No. Of course not, I was just- He had a tumor, and I thought if I could change the cell type or whatever I could make his heart normal to where I wouldn’t need a transplant.”

“A transplant would have been easier than that.” Mihr cocks his head to the side before fixing his gaze on Odaix.

“Was-“ There’s a pause, Evie’s voice dying in her throat before she clears it and tries again, “Was there a reason we needed to wait?”

“Oh.” Mihr gives the softest smile, not even glancing at Evie as he says, “I just wanted to teach Odaix something.”

Odaix wishes she could be anywhere but in that alleyway with Mihr. Anywhere else, where there isn’t a ticking time bomb on someone’s life. She isn’t able to stop it, not with Mihr’s magic, not with it apparently being _legal_. She can’t even _change_ it. Evie’s fate was decided the second Mihr touched her arm.

“What could you teach her _here_?” Evie’s voice breaks at the end and she gives a small cough at the end.

“That you are either stupid or that you would have been caught because of this one’s death.” Mihr gives a slight shrug before turning around and heading out of the alley. ‘Well, let’s get everything settled back at the office.”

Odaix opens her mouth, but Evie beats her to it, “How would- That doesn’t make sense.” Evie reaches out to grab at Mihr but the smaller boy ducks to the side before spitting out,

“Don’t touch me.” There’s no smile, his entire façade a frozen wall and the words icicles that threaten overhead. Evie jerks away before turning towards Odaix as if _Odaix_ has any answers.

Honestly, Odaix is as lost as Evie. Why Evie trying to remove a tumor versus doing a transplant made her either stupid or-

There’s the books that litter Mihr’s desk, all about how the knee functions, the leg bones and muscles. There’s the limp that comes and goes at varying degrees. There’s Mihr saying _magic can only do so much_. Suddenly, she wonders why someone would jump to trying to fix someone’s heart versus plain old replacing it.

She wonders what they’d need to do to even get right in the first place.

It’s jumping conclusions, Odaix knows that, but that’s the only thing she could think Mihr would be wanting her to guess at.

“Let’s just go, please.” Odaix tries for a smile, gesturing Evie to follow Mihr despite the man’s sudden cold exterior.

“It was an accident. Honestly- I didn’t _know_.” Evie tries again and again over the journey. Her voice breaking more and more the further they got. Her eyes desperately wide as her entire body tenses and tenses. “I was just trying to _help_.”

By the time they arrive back at the CME office, Odaix is entirely numb. Her thoughts circling back and forth and freezing at every little cough Evie releases. Evie is dying, Odaix knew that the second Mihr touched her. That’s all Mihr seems to do when he touches people. She’s dying, and she’s dying because she killed at least one person.

Probably more. Or, she had to test things out on something. If _Mihr_ couldn’t get away from experimenting with his abilities there’s no way _Evie_ could. Mihr is…

He’s…

Something. Dangerous. Cold. A sociopath. The ones they learned about in one of her classes when they were going over the psychology of criminals. Evie on the other hand, she panicked. She went to the police when the victim died. Why would she go to the police?

To lessen the consequence. That’s what Mihr said, and it’d make sense. If you report yourself, if it’s accidental get by with a bit more. They don’t charge doctors for homicide when they lose a patient, but Evie also isn’t a doctor. She’s working an underground black-market for… healing? Not transplants, she didn’t do a transplant to the victim.

Evie doesn’t fight thought, she just follows willingly. Her entire body trembling and she stumbles frequently, but she doesn’t even try to run. Inside of their office building Mihr takes a left instead of a right, heading to an area of the building Odaix has never been in before.

Mihr seems to pick a door at random, opening it up with one swift movement before gesturing inside, “If you could, please wait inside whilst I get the required paperwork. Odaix, please keep Miss Evie company.” He doesn’t wait for Odaix to nod before departing.

Evie hovers in the doorway for a second before sliding into the room and Odaix follows in pursuit. The room itself is empty. Cold. Nothing like the office they have on the other side of the building. There’s a steel table in the middle of the room, bracketed by four uncomfortable looking chairs.

Evie doesn’t even hesitate before dropping into one of them. “How,” Evie’s voice warbles for a second and she clears her throat before continuing, “How long have you been doing this?”

“Somewhere around a month. I’m not-“ Odaix flutters above one of the chairs, debating on if she could sit or if she had to stand. Her feet ached after walking for so long, but at the same time she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to. “I’m not really an officer.” She thought she was, when she first completed the training. Then she ended up apprenticed under Mihr and Jaquin happened and-

Reality started setting in quite quickly after that. Odaix is simply a child playing police, rather horribly at that.

“Oh, and… him?” Evie leans against the table, shoulders hunched and eyes big as her hands cradled her temples.

“Are you okay?” It’s a waste of a question. Odaix _knows_ Evie isn’t okay. Evie might not know, but-

“I’m fine.” Another cough wracks Evie’s body as she lifts one of her hands to wave off the query. “I just, I got a bit of a headache.”

Odaix sits down in the chair opposite of Evie, choking on the words that would tell Evie that she is _dying_. Would that be kindness, to let someone know? Or would it be cruelty since there is nothing Evie could do to stop it? Given, Evie is also a healer, but surely Mihr would have put that in consideration.

“Have you ever healed somebody before?” Evie seems surprised at the inquiry, her head jerking up as she squints at Odaix.

“Of course I have. I wouldn’t- Look, I might not have the stupid medical license, but I have _magic_.”

“Does the disease really make that big of a difference?” Odaix thinks back at the books Mihr reads day in and day out. Even before the disease wrecked the kingdom there were back alley doctors doing shady deals. Black market organ deals had to happen somehow. Odaix isn’t entirely ignorant no matter what Mihr might say.

Evie even smiles, her face partially lighting up. There’s an odd twitch on her cheek though, part of her smile sloping into an unnatural frown. “ _Yes_. It’s- It’s wondrous. You can do so much, you don’t even need to open up the body. I’ve rebuilt hands before. _Eyes_ when someone got a pencil stabbed through their eye. You can do _so much_.”

It sounds amazing. Wonderful. _Magical_. Then you have Mihr’s limp. Then you have the doctors telling him _that’s what fucked up your knee to begin with_. There’s always a _but_.

Enlist in the CME and become an officer, but kill people heartlessly. But watch people die in front of you without moving a muscle. She could say something, but is there anything that can actually be done? Odaix laces her fingers together and drop her hands to her lap.

She doesn’t dare to look at Evie who is secretly crumbling on the inside. Dying. Withering away. Mihr’s magic, his _disease,_ is wreaking havoc on Evie’s body without her knowledge. It’s even worse that Odaix knows about it.

Ignorance is bliss.

Mihr might call her ignorant, but is she really? If she is, she wouldn’t be sitting in front of a dying woman.

“So you run as an illegal healer?” Odaix’s heart isn’t in the words, but Evie freezes anyways. Her entire face falls and she closes her eyes.

“I help people when the hospitals won’t.”

Mihr strides into the room before Odaix can figure out a response. He drops a pile of papers right in front of Odaix, the top page so very similar to every other case file. The very bottom has a stamp in bold red letters; **SENTENCED TO DEATH _._** Odaix flips the page over before Evie could try to get a curious peek at it.

“Has anyone else died under your care?” Mihr gracefully sits next to Odaix, his hands folded on the table.

“No!” Evie jerks away from the table before erupting into a small coughing fit. A sharp inhale and she drags herself closer to the table, looking up at them as she repeats, “No. I- I never do anything dangerous enough for that.”

“Messing with the heart is pretty dangerous.” Mihr glances away and grabs the folder. “Actually, I think you’ve done a bit more than that. There have been three people in the past month that died with organ failure. The last one was found within a day of death so that a tracker was able to trace a bit of the disease from it.”

He pulls out three pieces of paper from the file and drops them on the table. There’s a small image in the upper left corner of each document. Odaix tries to read the words upside down to no avail. Evie simply stares at the papers before jerking her head up to watch Mihr.

“If I did that, I wouldn’t have turned myself in. I- I _couldn’t_ have done that.” Her voice trembles, breaking apart and shattering. She keeps glancing at the papers.

“Unless you were hoping we wouldn’t attach you to those murders.” Mihr offers a slight shrug before giving a sweet smile, “It doesn’t really matter if you did kill them or not. Either way, you confessed to murder already and are running illegal medical procedures. As a healer type, the punishment will remain the same.”

He taps at one of the papers when Evie watches in stifled silence. “It would be nice to have confirmation for these three victims. We might be able to trace your magic on one of the vics, but the other two will be left unanswered for .”

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t- I don’t _kill_ people.” Evie chokes out, her shoulders hunching in even further as she stares at the papers in front of her.

“Well,” Mihr starts collecting the documents and organizes them inside the folder again. “that’s a shame that you admitted to killing someone already. Unfortunately, the CME does not have rooms for law-breaking nephlims so I hope you won’t mind having to stay in here for an undetermined amount of time as we get things in order.”

Evie barely nods, her entire frame trembling as she stares at the metal table. Odaix offers a glance, mouth opening before Mihr adds, “Odaix, please come with me.”

Mihr doesn’t even look at her as he pushes out the order. He gives the folder a tap against the table and then leaves. Odaix does what she has been doing since she first saw Mihr and she simply follows him. The door closes with a soft click and suddenly it seems like Evie’s fate has just been sealed.

A glance through the window and Evie is still cowering over the table with her unseeing gaze glued onto the steel surface.

“Do you actually think she killed those people?” Odaix wishes she actually read the file. That she didn’t just glance at it before hiding from the fate of the woman locked in the room behind them.

“She was either experimenting with getting rid of tumors, or she was stupid and decided to test it on the man we saw before. Either way, she made our lives easier by ratting herself out.” He doesn’t wait for her as he walks away, forcing Odaix to rush to catch his soft words.

“Why would the consequence be the same because of her type of magic?” Odaix probably already knows the answer. It’s probably a stupid question, but Mihr was actually being forthright and honest instead of changing the subject. She couldn’t help but release the question and-

“Would you be willing to put someone with my abilities in a prison where they can have contact with other people?” He answers like it is obvious. There’s not even a second of hesitation.

“They could put her in isolation or…” Odaix trails off, unsure of other things to offer because-

No. No she wouldn’t go anywhere close to someone with Mihr’s ability in any other situation. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near Mihr _now_. And isolation, they’d just have to be so _careful_. Any bit of skin and it’s a life risk. But at the same time, “Is she going to die?”

Odaix’s voice is this pathetic whisper and she hates herself a bit for it. She _knows_ Evie is going to die. She knew the second they went to that stupid cell. She knew the second Mihr _touched_ her.

Mihr pauses and stares at her with his unblinking pale eyes. “Have you ever heard of botulism?”

Odaix squints at him but shakes her head, unsure where this was even going.

“It’s quite interesting. I’ve figured out how to mimic most of its effects, but I got a few of them wrong. I figured- If she survives? The Godlings deemed her undeserving, that maybe she really was a good person all along and it was simply an accident. But if she dies?”

Odaix stands frozen in the hallway as Mihr tilts his head to the side before giving a sickeningly sweet smile,

“If she dies, then she didn’t deserve the chance at life to begin with.”


	16. False Beliefs

**_Erica, February 2nd_ **

**_I’m going to come home._ **

**_I know you aren’t going to get this, so it doesn’t really matter but-_ **

**_I miss you and I love you and I’m going to come home before I die. Ghost is-_ **

**_Odd. Odd, but I don’t think he will hurt you and you deserve to know the truth._ **

**_All of my love._ **

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Kate stretches out on the shitty hotel bed before turning over so that she’s resting on her stomach. Malakai eyes her from the desk he is perched at.

Sometimes it’s hard to think of Kate as _Ghost_. Not when her antics are so very _Kate_ like. She’s even kicking her feet in the air, Malakai doesn’t think he ever saw Ghost do that before.

“Are you any good at makeup? Probably not. For Danelle’s sake, you are the worst.” She sends a pinched look at Malakai before letting out a loud sigh and rolling over again.

“You’re the one that killed her.” The words are sour on his tongue and he can’t spit them out fast enough. Really, he needs to remember this is _Ghost_. He’s not working with Kate again. Kate isn’t being herself and whining about something stupid.

Ghost is whining about the fact that Malakai is now a wanted man and his face is on the first page of the newspaper. Apparently someone did see them back in Demsen and they reported it. Thankfully, by the time the police got there Ghost and Malakai were long gone.

Then the old innkeeper gave them up so that Malakai was linked up to the murder. CME Agent gone wrong, is what the newspapers say. They even say he’s _helping_ the serial killer.

It’s bullshit, is what it all is.

Doesn’t change the fact that Malakai is very recognizable no matter how well Ghost can hide amongst people.

Ghost scowls at him, Kate’s face shifting into the old man’s face for a second before blending into the girl that originally died in the alley. Suddenly he remember he has seen Ghost in that pose, now whether the pose started with the original victim or someone else, Malakai will never know.

“Maybe if you didn’t panic over everything I wouldn’t have had to.” Ghost pushes herself up and off the bed and scrunches up her burning hair. “Still doesn’t solve the issue of your face.”

Or the issue of the disease. Malakai reaches up to touch his nose as if he’d be able to feel the dampness of blood. Even if he didn’t have the gloves he wouldn’t have been able to feel it. His hands are still a rotting mess, no matter what he tries. The most he’s gotten is for the inky black to turn a pale gray.

He closes his eyes and drops his hand away from his face. “We should go to Avelton.” It has been what he’s been psyching himself up for since they left Demsen.

“I already said we can make a pit stop there. I don’t know what that town has to offer but-“

“We need a leech.” And just like that Ghost freezes, her form shifting from the child to the albino, to the scarred man, back to Nia, and then stopping at Kate for a second before flashing to the young boy he was when they entered Demsen.

“Why do we need a leech?” His voice has this chilly frost to it. Like they are still in the Qleehl and the fire has just died in the cabin.

Malakai opens his mouth, about to snap _because you’re a hybrid nephlim_. He clicks it shut and looks away from Ghost instead. He might be wrong on that accusation, after all Ghost is a shapeshifter and that is _black_ magic. He’d still get sick from it. It’s just, Ghost has mentioned on multiple occasions that he has _white_ magic.

“No one is dying from the disease. We don’t need a leech.” Ghost is frowning, chin tilted up and a scowl on thin lips.

“ _I’m_ dying.” Malakai decides on.

“I’m _not_ going to kill you.” Ghost snaps before forcing out an exhale and heading to the bathroom. And yes, Malakai got that. _Ghost_ might not kill him. The disease on the other hand? That definitely will.

“You have black magic.” The door to the bathroom slams shut and Malakai doesn’t even know if the monster heard him.

Ghost has been in a mood ever since they entered NorDale and saw the newspapers posted about. Thankfully they came to town when the sun was already falling so Malakai was able to hide in the shadow of his coat, but it still was quite conspicuous. It’s a wonder if any of it is _worth_ it.

Sometimes, cutting his losses just seems like the better solution rather than struggling and _helping_ a serial killer. Malakai’s gaze goes to the ugly letter laying on the desk.

He’s already made his decision. As soon as he saw his face on the newspaper it clicked in place.

Erica doesn’t deserve to think that her husband _abandoned_ her to help a serial killer. That he abandoned their _child_.

Kate is the one that stumbles out of the bathroom several minutes later with one of the hotel’s towels swallowing her frame. She looks over, nose crinkling before demanding, ”Surely you aren’t willing to sit around in your filth for even longer, are you? If the CME is going to be on our tail, we aren’t going to have much free time like this in the future.”

She bustles over to the bed in a few hurried steps before plopping down to stare at Malakai. “I remember you bathing more frequently, and really if it’s _me_ you have a problem with- Well.” She shifts to the albino boy and furrows his brows before adding, “You shouldn’t take it out on your hygiene. That’s how diseases start.”

Malakai can’t help the snort that escapes him. As if he didn’t already have a disease.

He doesn’t wait for any other comments as he locks himself up in the bathroom. Turning around and-

Weeks of travel did quite a bit of damage to him. His bulk seemed to halve thanks to the skimpy meals the duo have been forced to endure. His beard-

Well.

He didn’t have one before. The CME had a restriction on facial hair, something about it being unprofessional so he hasn’t seen himself with a beard for the past five years. It’s…

Odd.

He doesn’t know how long he’s had it. Normally, he’d be able to feel it. Normally, his hands wouldn’t be the nasty, numb mess that they are.

His hair is matted and limp, something similar to what a mange infested collie would look like. Before it lost all its fur.

He probably smells and-

Godlings, this would have been what Erica would have seen if they went straight to Avelton. This is what everyone _has_ been seeing. No wonder the odd looks and everything else. _Ghost_ doesn’t look like this.

Ghost can also change her appearance at the flip of a dime. Who knows what she really looks like, if she even looks like anything.

He puts the shower as hot as it can get, stripping off the layers and layers of clothes he smothered himself in. There’s hesitation when he gets to the gloves, then even more hesitation when he gets to his socks. It’s a harsh reminder, the skin underneath.

His feet, he was always able to forget about his feet. He can’t now. Not when he looks down at the nasty black rot of frostbite. He could probably lessen it now. Make it more of a pale gray like his hands.

Briefly, he wonders if it is also going to kill him. How long it would take to kill him. Maybe his biggest worry shouldn’t be Ghost’s disease killing him, but whatever toxin his own frostbite is dripping into his veins.

In the end, he has to change the temperature of the water to something much, much colder. Anything above room temperature feels like a fire being ignited on his flesh.

He stands there for too long, watching as the shower’s water turns to a murky color as it visibly washes away the dirt and grime from traveling for so long. It’s amazing how he didn’t feel it. How he got used to it.

Like he’s getting used to Ghost.

If only he could wash the monster away with water. He’d have drowned himself already if he could.

He doesn’t realize his mistake until he steps out of the shower. Really, it should have been obvious. There is a reason Ghost just wrapped herself up in one of the shitty hotel towels.

Malakai himself was not looking forward to stepping back into the filthy uniform after cleaning himself. The issue is, they only packed books and food and water containers and whatever they had on their back. At the little hovel Ghost brought them to in Demsen, they didn’t even pick up anymore clothing.

It was certainly poor planning, and they are paying for it now. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there contemplating what he’d rather do until he picks up bits and pieces of his uniform.

Honestly, it feels like he might as well have not taken a shower as the clothes slide right over his skin. The only things he is happy about are the socks and the leather gloves. Anything to not face the frost bite decimating his skin.

Ghost has since curled up in one of the blankets, curling up her nose before waving a hand, “We are going to need to get more coins if we are to get any of the supplies we need.”

“You could always steal.” Malakai offers a shrug as he shuffles his way back to the desk and back to the crudely written letter to Erica. He couldn’t even read his own handwriting, the only reason he knew _what_ was being said is simply because he wrote it.

“I’d rather not.” Kate- Ghost throws herself down onto the bed with a huff.

Malakai has to bite back his response. _No, you’d rather kill_. Antagonizing the killer hasn’t gotten him anywhere. Silence hasn’t gotten him anywhere. _Waiting_ only got him with bloody hands as they hid away Kate’s body in an alleyway.

He touches his nose again.

“I know somewhere where we could get clothes. And food. And supplies.”

“Let me guess, Avelton? Geez, what is your hard on for that place? You’re worse than Devin when he gets an idea in his head.” Kate shifts in the bed, blue eyes peeking out to stare at Malakai.

Malakai stares down at the letter so that he doesn’t have to look at her. If he closes his eyes and forgets this could be just like any other job. Like one of the several jobs they worked on. It’d be nothing new except Kate is dead and Malakai helped her murderer. It’s a joke, is what it is.

“I know people there. They’ll help us.” Erica would be livid, but she’d still help. Probably. Oh, he did not want to test it. He’d rather not know what the line would be and where exactly he was in regards to the line.

Kate’s voice morphs into a younger, silkier voice as she asks, “Why do you want to go to Avelton so badly?”

“I need a leech.” It technically isn’t a lie.

“Then we can find Ivory, she’s a leech.”

Malakai flinches, “No.” At least that means Ivory isn’t another one of the monster’s victims. Aiding the serial killer isn’t any better though and he’s not sure if he’d trust someone because of _Ghost’s_ recommendations.

“Look, we can still go to Avelton. I don’t mind, it’s not like it is out of the way. I just want to know _why_ you want to go there so badly. Family?” Ghost raises an arm and lazily gestures to the desk. “Whoever you are writing so many bloody letters to? In Demsen you seemed against the idea of going to Avelton. What changed?”

Malakai simply stares down at the letter as if it has all of the answers. It doesn’t. It never will.

“It doesn’t matter either way, and even if we do go to Avelton we won’t be able to stay long. Not with,” There’s an irritated huff and movement in Malaki’s peripherals before Ghost adds, “ _you_.”

As if it is _Malakai’s_ fault for everything.

It’s late. Really, they should be calling it a night. Malakai hasn’t really been able to sleep much, not since his stay in the stupid cabin in the middle of the godling forsaken Qleehl. He’s exhausted, half-starved and his mind balances on a delicate tight rope where one slip means death. What he _should_ do is curl up on the floor and pretend that none of this is happening.

Instead, he snaps out, “What does that mean?”

Ghost’s entire face flickers for a second before she settles on Kate’s face, “It’d be easier to explain what it _doesn’t_ mean.” Her face shifts and suddenly it’s the albino boy who closes his demon eyes for a second before, “Look. There’s just a time crutch now. You should know how the CME is. You _are_ the CME. Your face is everywhere and I, I’m not looking to die or get caught or whatever it is you guys plan to do to me. I have… things.”

There’s suddenly a horribly bright smile and Ghost gives a slight shrug. “How are your hands doing? The only healer I know is Death, and I have a feeling he won’t be any help so I think we are on our own.”

Malakai looks away from the monster and instead picks up his letter. _I’m going to come home_. That’s all he has going for him.

 _I’m going to come home_.

“I remember you being more talkative before, Midnight.” It’s Kate’s voice ringing out again, he doesn’t even have to look to confirm it. “I mean, not that you were ever mister chatty, but there’s a difference between actually having a conversation and this one sided waltz we seem to be doing.”

Not that it matters, but, “Why are you still calling me Midnight?”

“See! There it is!” Kate- Ghost, that’s _Ghost_ , flings herself at the edge of the bed, a finger raised accusingly. “Completely ignoring almost everything I say. Why should I answer you? You haven’t even told me why you want to go to _Avelton_! It’s unfair, really. It is. Here I am, helping you, and you won’t even _talk_ to me. Why are you _always_ like this?’

Malakai freezes at the words. For one, it’s all a _lie_. And then- Then-

 _Partnered with **you**? You won’t even **talk** to me! _Laughter rings in his mind and the memory of a shove. Kate was always a handful, excitable and one of those people who liked to _touch_.

“You’re holding me _hostage_. Not helping me.” Kate’s entire face falls at the words. The smile slips somewhere to the floor and her blue eyes are broken wide open. They melt into a green before drowning in crimson as Ghost changes his form yet again.

“I saved your life.” His words are cold like the wastelands. The joking tone he was previously whining in frozen solid. “Without me, you would have died in the Qleehl. Without _you_ , I would have been able to make it safely to the east without attracting unwanted attention.”

Malakai opens his mouth, a barb sitting at the tip of his tongue but one look at the scowl Ghost is sending him makes the barb wither away into nothing. Instead he moves so that he can shove the letter into one of the open books on the desk. The sound of the book closing is louder than thunder and shakes Malakai to his very bones.

“Sure. Ignore me. Like usual.” There’s a huff, movement and when Malakai dares to glance over Ghost is curled up on the bed with the blankets consuming whatever victim he’s portraying himself as. “Go to bed. We will be leaving early tomorrow.”

Malakai doesn’t argue. All he does is turn to stare at the desk that has the contents of their bags sprawled across it. Books really. That’s what they have, books. He reaches out and snatches the one of the two books featuring frost bite.

Ghost might be able to sleep, but Malakai knows himself and so far the only times he has been able to fall asleep is after staying up for several days. Even then, his slumber is more disruptive than not and he finds him sleeping for a scarce amount of hours. He’s not sure if that’s because of Ghost or from the disease.

Turning pages in the book is slightly easier than it was back in the cabin. Easier, as in his fingers don’t crack. It’d probably be even easier if he took off the glove, but he’s seen his hand for long enough already. He didn’t need to see it anymore. The book itself, well.

He’s read it at least three times since they left the Qleehl. There are some paragraphs where he could probably close his eyes and read the entire thing verbatim from the top of his head. It’s depressing, really. The fact that he knows bits and pieces of the book so well.

They have other books, of course. Ghost’s books. Malakai hasn’t dared to touch one of them since the cabin.

Ghost still hasn’t said what they were after.

Malakai probably deserves it, since he himself is not being cooperative when it comes to communicating. He’s also not trying to raise the dead, or whatever it is Ghost is trying for.

Malakai is also not a serial killer.

He shuts the book when the words begin swim in front of his eyes, jumping lines and flipping around so that Malakai is forced to read the words backwards. It shuts without a sound, like a candle being snuffed out.

The letter to Erica is still poking out of the book he shoved it in. It’s one of the old books covering the myths of the godlings. The cover loudly exclaimed that it is the _truth_ of the godlings that Liphe would have hidden away. An odd read, surely. He reaches out to grab the book and-

There’s a snuffle, covers moving about and Malakai gives a quick glance back to see if Ghost has given up on sleep. He hasn’t, simply turning about so that his face is hidden from the desk’s lamp.

The monster probably won’t care. Not now, not after he got whatever it was he wanted from them. At least, he doesn’t seem to hoard the books so possessively anymore.

He flips it open, Erica’s letter slipping onto the floor as the weight of the pages free it. Skimming through the lines reveal it to be the myth over Nephlim. It follows along with the one they are often told, child of Anate and Oleander that ended up being able to heal all of the godlings from the plague. Liphe fell in a fit and drowned the poor sod, causing the Anate to lash out irrationally.

Except, there’s a bit in the myth that’s different.

Malakai frowns at it. Really, the line itself was simple and easy. Misleading in the grievances it would cause.

**As Nephlim grew older, so did the plague and when he reached the age of 16 the plague was freed from his body and ran rampant among the godling’s colony.**

Everything else is the same as the story he grew up with. Just one minor difference. He flips through a few of the other myths in the book and they all seem to be the exact same minus an extra sentence here, and extended ending there. Nothing prominent. Malakai tucks the letter back into the book before grabbing one of the other’s sprawled about.

 ** _Death’s Paramore_** it says in the fancy cursive lettering of older times. The cover itself is basic, as if all the effort went for the script and the only thing they were willing to add to it is a simple circle in the middle of the bottom half of the cover. He flips through, skimming the names to confirm that yes, this book was about Death’s affair with Qleehl.

The first tale being how they met and then the later myths being about their destructive end. Their very gory, messy end. Liphe’s jealousy acting up once again when her betrothed played around with the mother of monsters and demons. It is one of the later myths that Ghost bookmarked by folding the corner of the page.

Undine is the title of the myth. Malakai doesn’t even have to read it to fill in the blanks. Undine is the immortal daughter of Qleehl and Death. The one he buried in a lake when Liphe made her demand of the death of all his children. It’s one of those tales that they’d tell at weddings, as a way to say _don’t cheat, it has nasty after effects_.

Given, those stories are fluffed up for weddings. At his wedding they told it more like Death gave all of his children permanent vacation homes far, far away from the godling’s colony. In a way, the godling did. Just, most of them were dead and the one that couldn’t die got buried alive under a lake for eternal suffering.

He skims through the myth anyways, just in case there is some reason spelled out for why Ghost bookmarked it. There’s nothing of course, because godling forbid if Ghost is someone that actually wrote notes in his books. It’d make Malakai’s life easier if he was that kind of person.

Maybe Ghost thinks he could find Undine and use whatever keeps the godling from dying to resurrect other people? Or, maybe he is trying to find a way to keep himself alive? No, he’s specifically mentioned he was fixing a mistake. Malakai simply didn’t know _what_ the mistake was.

There’s another noise and Malakai shuts the book and slides it back where it was before.

The world turns, a stifling silence and Malakai reaches for another book. He skips right over the one about Qleehl and grabs the one tucked underneath with the title **_Speaking to Godlings_**. Underneath the title are the words **_An introduction to Séance._**

Maybe Malakai is looking at things wrong. He frowns as he brings the book closer to himself and skims through the table of contents. It’s innocent at first, then the fourth chapter covers reviving the dead and effects to the caster. The fifth chapter depicts the different types of undead. The seventh chapter dictates how to trap souls into other bodies and-

He shuts the book and pushes it away.

There’s a clatter as one of the other books fall but he honestly can’t bring himself to grab whatever it is. Instead he just sits there and stares at his hands. Obviously the monster is after something to do with the undead. Why he’d have an interest in all of the stupid godling tales eludes him but Ghost is after something to do with _death_.

Maybe it’s how he remembers things from his victims. He’s mentioned odd things here and there that only Kate would know- _I still can’t believe Erica let you get a cat because you are too big of a chicken shit to get a dog-_ and then there’s the odd changes and-

It’d make sense, except he was looking _into_ it. If he has it now, he wouldn’t need to research it.

Bringing something back from the dead is the natural suspicion and Malakai honestly doesn’t know how to handle that. It’s-

It’d be unnatural. Monstrous. It’d be opening a gate to the godlings realm and all of the monsters that lurk there would be able to lay claim on their world. That’s what happened to the Qleehl, some _idiot_ opened up a passageway and Qleehl took full advantage. If Ghost is planning on bringing back the dead and-

Something to do with Undine for sure. He had to have bookmarked it for a reason.

Or, Ghost was just horrible religious and he likes to keep the myths with him. Close to heart. Maybe Undine is his favorite, maybe he is planning to get married someday. Who would marry a monster, Malakai didn’t know but-

It’s there. A possibility.

He blinks, and there’s a splash of crimson on his black glove.

Would it matter? In the end, would it?

He is going to die anyways. The disease is going to kill him, even if Ghost _doesn’t_ kill him. Why the monster doesn’t realize that escapes Malakai but it is a fact.

He tilts back, his entire body falling apart in the chair as he stares up at the ceiling. It is a dirty and old ceiling, stains this way and that and it had all the weird little bumps so many ceilings seem to have. He’s tempted to count them, but when he tries to focus the world fall into an odd blurry haze.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, starring up at the ceiling. Hopefully long enough for the bleeding to stop. He’d test it with his glove, but eventually the black leather is going to stain a vibrant red and he’ll never be able to tell the difference.

But eventually-

Eventually, there’s a rustle and Kate drags herself out of the bed and stumbles over to the bathroom. She comes back, clothed in weeks old clothing and throws Malakai’s coat at him and snaps out, “Come on, we got a lot of travelling to do and you need to hide your uniform if we are to avoid attention.”

Just like that they leave.

Malakai keeps bleeding, inside and outside and they head to Avelton.


End file.
